Tag Archives: Marie
Helen 2:10
Mon colonnel m’envoye à grands coups de carquois,
Rassieger Ilion pour conquerir Heleine. And now, when I ought to be free of war’s harness, My colonel sends me with great blows from his quiver To besiege Troy again, to conquer Helen. “Ores que” is better than “Et ore que” with its hiatus, consistent with Ronsard’s desire to make the near-perfect that much more perfect. That it was not a straight-line process is made clear by the variant of line 4 Blanchemain also provides from 1578: “Le ciel se resjouist dans la terre est Marie” (‘Heaven rejoices, Marie is in the ground’). Frankly, it’s a terrible soundalike for the line in the ‘definitive version’, not just because it sounds as if Heaven is rejoicing because Marie is dead, but also because rhyming ‘Marie’ with ‘Marie’ is undeniably feeble.
Interlude (5)
Another quick set of variants across editions. I’m including this one partly because it graphically demonstrates also that you can’t trust modern editors: neither of my two ‘standards’, Blanchemain and Marty-Laveaux, actually print the text which appears in the edition they say they are using…
1552 Thiard, chacun disoit à mon commencement, Que j’estoi trop obscur au simple populaire : Aujourd’hui, chacun dit que je suis au contraire, Et que je me dements parlant trop bassement. Toi, qui as enduré presqu’un pareil torment, Di moi, je te suppli, di moi que doi-je faire ? Di moi, si tu le sçais, comme doi-je complaire A ce monstre testu, divers en jugement ? Quand j’escri haultement, il ne veult pas me lire, Quand j’escri basement, il ne fait qu’en médire : De quel estroit lien tiendrai-je, ou de quels clous, Ce monstrueux Prothé, qui se change à tous cous ? Paix, paix, je t’enten bien : il le faut laisser dire, Et nous rire de lui, comme il se rit de nous. | Thiard, everyone said when I began That I was too obscure for the simple man in the street; Today, everyone says that I am the opposite, And that I’ve gone mad for speaking in too low a style. You who have endured much the same torture, Tell me, I beg, tell me what must I do? Tell me, if you know, how I should please This many-headed monster, with such varied opinions? When I write in a high style, they don’t want to read me; When I write in a low style, they just abuse me. With what tight bonds or what nails can I hold This monstrous Proteus who changes shape at every moment? OK, OK, I understand you completely: we must leave them to speak, And laugh at them, as they laugh at us. |
1560 Mon Thiard, on disoit à mon commencement, Que j’estoi trop obscur au simple populaire : Mais aujourdhuy lon dit que je suis au contraire, Et que je me dements parlant trop bassement. Toy, de qui le labeur enfante doctement Des livres immortels, di-moi, que doi-je faire ? Di-moi (car tu sçais tout) comme doi-je complaire A ce monstre testu, divers en jugement ? Quand j’escri hautement, il ne veult pas me lire, Quand j’escri basement, il ne fait qu’en médire : De quels liens serrez ou de quel rang de clous Tiendrai-je ce Prothé, qui se change à tous cous ? Paix, paix, je t’enten bien : il le faut laisser dire, Et nous rire de lui, comme il se rit de nous. | My Thiard, they used to say at the beginning That I was too obscure to the simple man in the street; But today they say that I am the opposite, And that I’ve gone mad for speaking in too low a style. You whose labour gives birth learnedly To immortal books, tell me, what should I do? Tell me (for you know everything) how I should please This many-headed monster, with such varied opinions? When I write in a high style, they don’t want to read me; When I write in a low style, they just abuse me. With what tight bonds or what line of nails Can I hold this Proteus who changes shape at every moment? OK, OK, I understand you completely: we must leave them to speak, And laugh at them, as they laugh at us. |
1578 Tyard, on me blasmoit à mon commencement, Que j’estoi trop obscur au simple populaire : Mais on dit aujourd’huy que je suis au contraire, Et que je me dements parlant trop bassement. Toy, de qui le labeur enfante doctement Des livres immortels, dy-moy, que doy-je faire ? Dy-moy (car tu sçais tout) comme doy-je complaire A ce monstre testu, divers en jugement ? Quand je brave en mes vers, il a peur de me lire : Quand ma voix se desenfle, il ne fait que mesdire. Dy moy de quels liens, et de quel rang de clous Tiendray-je ce Prothé, qui se change à tous coups ? Tyard, je t’enten bien, il le faut laisser dire, Et nous rire de luy, comme il se rit de nous. | Tyard, they used to blame me at the beginning That I was too obscure to the simple man in the street; But today they say that I am the opposite, And that I’ve gone mad for speaking in too low a style. You whose labour gives birth learnedly To immortal books, tell me, what should I do? Tell me (for you know everything) how I should please This many-headed monster, with such varied opinions? When I am defiant in my verse, they are afraid to read me; When my voice becomes less grand, they just abuse me. Tell me with what bonds or what line of nails Can I hold this Proteus who changes shape at every moment? Tyard, I understand you completely: we must leave them to speak, And laugh at them, as they laugh at us. |
1584 Tyard, on me blasmoit à mon commencement, Dequoy j’estois obscur au simple populaire : Mais on dit aujourd’huy que je suis au contraire, Et que je me démens parlant trop bassement. Toy de qui le labeur enfante doctement Des livres immortels, dy-moy, que doy-je faire ? Dy-moy (car tu sçais tout) comme doy-je complaire A ce monstre testu divers en jugement ? Quand je brave en mes vers il a peur de me lire : Quand ma voix se desenfle, il ne fait qu’en mesdire. Dy-moy de quel lien, force, tenaille, ou clous Tiendray-je ce Proté qui se change à tous coups ? Tyard, je t’enten bien, il le faut laisser dire, Et nous rire de luy, comme il se rit de nous. | Tyard, they used to blame me at the beginning Because I was too obscure to the simple man in the street; But today they say that I am the opposite, And that I’ve gone mad for speaking in too low a style. You whose labour gives birth learnedly To immortal books, tell me, what should I do? Tell me (for you know everything) how I should please This many-headed monster, with such varied opinions? When I am defiant in my verse, they are afraid to read me; When my voice becomes less grand, they just abuse me. Tell me with what bond, force, manacles or nails Can I hold this Proteus who changes shape at every moment? Tyard, I understand you completely: we must leave them to speak, And laugh at them, as they laugh at us. |
1587 Ma Muse estoit blasmée à son commencement, D’apparoistre trop haulte au simple populaire : Maintenant des-enflée on la blasme au contraire, Et qu’elle se desment parlant trop bassement. Toy de qui le labeur enfante doctement Des livres immortels, dy-moy, que doy-je faire ? Dy-moy (car tu sçais tout) comme doy-je complaire A ce monstre testu divers en jugement ? Quand je tonne en mes vers il a peur de me lire : Quand ma voix se rabaisse il ne fait qu’en mesdire. Dy-moy de quel lien force tenaille ou clous Tiendray-je ce Proté qui se change à tous coups ? Tyard, je t’enten bien, il le faut laisser dire, Et nous rire de luy comme il se rit de nous. | My Muse used to be blamed at the beginning For appearing too high-flown for the simple man in the street; Now she’s become less grand, they blame her for the opposite, And that she’s gone mad for speaking in too low a style. You whose labour gives birth learnedly To immortal books, tell me, what should I do? Tell me (for you know everything) how I should please This many-headed monster, with such varied opinions? When I thunder in my verse, they are afraid to read me; When my voice becomes less grand, they just abuse me. Tell me with what bond, force, manacles or nails Can I hold this Proteus who changes shape at every moment? Tyard, I understand you completely: we must leave them to speak, And laugh at them, as they laugh at us. |
Interlude (4)
Six months ago I posted a few poems in multiple versions, showing how they changed as Ronsard re-edited them through various editions. Here’s another which, as you can see, Ronsard virtually re-wrote every time he looked at it…
1552 Marie, qui voudroit vostre beau nom tourner, Il trouveroit Aimer: aimez-moi donq, Marie, Faites cela vers moi dont vostre nom vous prie, Vostre amour ne se peut en meilleur lieu donner: S’il vous plaist pour jamais un plaisir demener, Aimez-moi, nous prendrons les plaisirs de la vie, Penduz l’un l’autre au col, et jamais nulle envie D’aimer en autre lieu ne nous pourra mener. Si faut il bien aimer au monde quelque chose: Cellui qui n’aime point, cellui-là se propose Une vie d’un Scyte; et ses jours veut passer Sans gouster la douceur des douceurs la meilleure. E, qu’est-il rien de doux sans Venus? las! à l’heure Que je n’aimeray point puissai-je trépasser! | Marie, anyone who tried re-arranging your lovely name Would find “Aimer” [‘to love’]; so love me, Marie, Do to me what your name asks of you, Your love cannot be given anywhere better. If you please to keep it a pleasure for ever, Love me, we will enjoy the pleasures of life Hanging on each other’s necks, and never will any desire To love elsewhere be able to lead us away. After all, you have to love something in this world; Whoever loves not at all offers himself only The life of a Scythian, and wants to spend his days Without tasting the sweetest sweet of all. What is there that is sweet without Love? Oh, at the moment When I cease loving, may I die! |
1560 Marie, qui voudroit vostre nom retourner, Il trouveroit Aimer : aimez-moy donc, Marie ; Puisque vostre beau nom à l’amour vous convie, Il faut vostre jeunesse à l’amour adonner. S’il vous plaist pour jamais vostre amy m’ordonner, Ensemble nous prendrons les plaisirs de la vie, D’une amour contra aymée, et jamais autre envie Ne me pourra le cœur du vostre detourner. Si faut-il bien aimer au monde quelque chose ; Celuy qui n’aime point, pour son but se propose Une vie d’un Scythe, et ses jours veut passer Sans gouster la douceur des douceurs la meilleure. Eh! qu’est-il rien de doux sans Venus? las! à l’heure Que je n’aimeray point puissai-je trespasser! | Marie, anyone who tried re-arranging your name Would find “Aimer”; so love me, Marie, Since your fair name makes you ready to love, You should give your youth to love. If you please to appoint me your love for ever, Together we shall take the pleasures of life, With a love loved in return, and never will any other desire Be able to turn my heart away from yours. You really must love something in this world; Whoever loves not at all, offers himself the goal of The life of a Scythian, and wants to spend his days Without tasting the sweetest sweet of all. Ah, is there anything that is sweet without Love? Oh, at the moment When I cease loving, may I die! |
1578 Marie, qui voudroit vostre nom retourner, Il trouveroit Aimer : aimez-moy donc, Marie ; Vostre nom de nature à l’amour vous convie, Pecher contre son nom ne se doit pardonner. S’il vous plaist vostre cœur pour gage me donner, Je vous offre le mien : ainsi de ceste vie Nous prendrons les plaisirs, et jamais autre envie Ne me pourra l’esprit d’une autre emprisonner. Il fault aimer, maistresse, au monde quelque chose. Celuy qui n’aime point, malheureux se propose Une vie d’un Scythe, et ses jours veut passer Sans gouster la douceur des douceurs la meilleure. Eh! qu’est-il rien de doux sans Venus? las! à l’heure Que je n’aimeray plus puissai-je trespasser! | Marie, anyone who tried re-arranging your name Would find “Aimer”; so love me, Marie, Your fair name naturally makes you ready to love, Sinning against your own name you should not forgive yourself. If you please to give me your heart as guarantee, I shall offer you mine: so this life’s Pleasures we shall take, and never will any other desire Let me emprison the spirit of another lady. One must love something, mistress, in this world; If anyone loves not at all, that unfortunate offers himself The life of a Scythian, and wants to spend his days Without tasting the sweetest sweet of all. Ah, is there anything that is sweet without Love? Oh, at the moment When I cease loving, may I die! |
1584 Marie, qui voudroit vostre nom retourner, Il trouveroit aimer : aimez-moi donc, Marie, Vostre nom de nature à l’amour vous convie, A qui trahist Nature il ne faut pardonner. S’il vous plaist vostre cœur pour gage me donner, Je vous offre le mien : ainsi de ceste vie, Nous prendrons les plaisirs, et jamais autre envie Ne me pourra l’esprit d’une autre emprisonner. Il faut aimer, maistresse, au monde quelque chose. Celuy qui n’aime point, malheureux se propose Une vie d’un Scythe, et ses jours veut passer Sans gouster la douceur des douceurs la meilleure. Rien n’est doux sans Venus et sans son fils : à l’heure Que je n’aimeray plus puissé-je trespasser. | Marie, anyone who tried re-arranging your name Would find “Aimer”; so love me, Marie, Your fair name naturally makes you ready to love, And anyone who betrays Nature ought not to be forgiven. If you please to give me your heart as guarantee, I shall offer you mine: so this life’s Pleasures we shall take, and never will any other desire Let me emprison the spirit of another lady. One must love something, mistress, in this world; If anyone loves not at all, that unfortunate offers himself The life of a Scythian, and wants to spend his days Without tasting the sweetest sweet of all. Nothing is sweet, without Venus and her son: at the moment When I cease loving, may I die! |
1587 Marie, qui voudroit vostre nom retourner, Il trouveroit aimer : aimez-moi donc, Marie, Vostre nom de luymesme à l’amour vous convie, Il fault suyvre Nature, et ne l’abandonner. S’il vous plaist vostre cœur pour gage me donner, Je vous offre le mien : ainsi de ceste vie, Nous prendrons les plaisirs, et jamais autre envie Ne me pourra l’esprit d’une autre emprisonner. Il faut aimer, maistresse, au monde quelque chose. Celuy qui n’aime point, malheureux se propose Une vie d’un Scythe, et ses jours veut passer Sans gouster la douceur des douceurs la meilleure. Rien n’est doux sans Venus et sans son fils : à l’heure Que je n’aimeray plus puissé-je trespasser. | Marie, anyone who tried re-arranging your name Would find “Aimer”; so love me, Marie, Your fair name of itself makes you ready to love, You should follow Nature and not abandon her. If you please to give me your heart as guarantee, I shall offer you mine: so this life’s Pleasures we shall take, and never will any other desire Let me emprison the spirit of another lady. One must love something, mistress, in this world; If anyone loves not at all, that unfortunate offers himself The life of a Scythian, and wants to spend his days Without tasting the sweetest sweet of all. Nothing is sweet, without Venus and her son: at the moment When I cease loving, may I die! |
Elégie à Marie (Amours 2:68a )
Ma seconde ame à fin que le siecle advenir De nos jeunes amours se puisse souvenir, Et que vostre beauté que j’ay long temps aimee Ne se perde au tombeau par les ans consumee, Sans laisser quelque marque apres elle de soy : Je vous consacre icy le plus gaillard de moy, L’esprit de mon esprit qui vous fera revivre Ou long temps ou jamais par l’âge de ce livre. Ceux qui liront les vers que j’ay chantez pour vous D’un stile varié entre l’aigre et le dous Selon les passions que vous m’avez donnees, Vous tiendront pour Deesse : et tant plus les annees En volant s’enfuiront, et plus vostre beauté Contre l’âge croistra vieille en sa nouveauté. O ma belle Angevine, ô ma douce Marie, Mon œil mon cœur mon sang mon esprit et ma vie, Dont la vertu me monstre un droit chemin aux cieux : Je reçoy tel plaisir quand je baise vos yeux, Quand je languis dessus, et quand je les regarde, Que sans une frayeur qui la main me retarde, Je me serois occis, qu’impuissant je ne puis Vous monstrer par effect combien vostre je suis. Or’ cela que je puis, je le veux icy faire : Je veux en vous chantant vos louanges parfaire, Et ne sentir jamais mon labeur engourdy Que tout l’ouvrage entier pour vous ne soit ourdy. Si j’estois un grand Roy, pour eternel exemple De fidelle amitié, je bastirois un temple Desur le bord de Loire, et ce temple auroit nom Le temple de Ronsard et de sa Marion. De marbre Parien seroit vostre effigie, Vostre robe seroit à plein fons eslargie De plis recamez d’or, et vos cheveux tressez Seroient de filets d’or par ondes enlassez. D’un crespe canellé seroit la couverture De vostre chef divin, et la rare ouverture D’un reth de soye et d’or, fait de l’ouvriere main D’Arachne ou de Pallas, couvriroit vostre sein. Vostre bouche seroit de roses toute pleine, Respandant par le temple une amoureuse haleine. Vous auriez d’une Hebé le maintien gracieux, Et un essain d’Amours sortiroit de vos yeux : Vous tiendriez le haut bout de ce temple honorable, Droicte sur le sommet d’un pillier venerable. Et moy d’autre costé assis au mesme lieu, Je serois remerquable en la forme d’un Dieu : J’aurois en me courbant dedans la main senestre Un arc demy-vouté, tout tel qu’on voit renaistre Aux premiers jours du mois le reply d’un croissant : Et j’aurois sur la corde un beau trait menassant, Non le serpent Python, mais ce sot de jeune homme, Qui maintenant sa vie et son ame vous nomme, Et qui seul me fraudant, est Roy de vostre cœur, Qu’en fin en vostre amour vous trouverez mocqueur. Quiconque soit celuy, qu’en vivant il languisse, Et de chacun haï luy mesme se haysse, Qu’il se ronge le cœur, et voye ses dessains Tousjours lui eschapper comme vent de ses mains, Soupçonneux et resveur arrogant, solitaire, Et luy-mesme se puisse à luy-mesme desplaire. J’aurois desur le chef un rameau de Laurier, J’aurois desur le flanc un beau poignard guerrier, Mon espé’ seroit d’or, et la belle poignée Ressembleroit à l’or de ta tresse peignée : J’aurois un cystre d’or, et j’aurois tout aupres Un Carquois tout chargé de flames et de traits. Ce temple frequenté de festes solennelles Passeroit en honneur celuy des immortelles, Et par vœux nous serions invoquez tous les jours, Comme les nouveaux Dieux des fidelles amours. D’âge en âge suivant au retour de l’annee Nous aurions pres le temple une feste ordonnee, Non pour faire courir, comme les anciens, Des chariots couplez aus jeux Olympiens, Pour saulter pour lutter ou de jambe venteuse Franchir en haletant la carriere poudreuse : Mais tous les jouvenceaux des pays d’alentour, Touchez au fond du cœur de la fleche d’Amour, Aiant d’un gentil feu les ames allumees, S’assembleroient au temple avecques leurs aimees : Et là, celuy qui mieux sa lévre poseroit Dessus la lévre aimee, et plus doux baiseroit, Ou soit d’un baiser sec ou d’un baiser humide, D’un baiser court ou long, ou d’un baiser qui guide L’ame desur la bouche, et laisse trespasser Le baiseur qui ne vit sinon que du penser, Ou d’un baiser donné comme les colombelles, Lors qu’ils se font l’amour de la bouche et des ailes. Celuy qui mieux seroit en tels baisers appris, Sur tous les jouvenceaux emporteroit le prix, Seroit dit le veinqueur des baisers de Cythere, Et tout chargé de fleurs s’en iroit à sa mere. Aux pieds de mon autel en ce temple nouveau Luiroit le feu veillant d’un eternel flambeau, Et seroient ces combats nommez apres ma vie Les jeux que fit Ronsard pour sa belle Marie. O ma belle Maistresse, hé que je voudrois bien Qu’Amour nous eust conjoint d’un semblable lien, Et qu’apres nos trespas dans nos fosses ombreuses Nous fussions la chanson des bouches amoureuses : Que ceux de Vandomois dissent tous d’un accord, (Visitant le tombeau sous qui je serois mort) Nostre Ronsard quittant son Loir et sa Gastine, A Bourgueil fut espris d’une belle Angevine : Et que les Angevins dissent tous d’une vois, Nostre belle Marie aimoit un Vandomois : Les deux n’avoient qu’un cœur, et l’amour mutuelle Qu’on ne voit plus icy leur fut perpetuelle : Siecle vrayment heureux, siecle d’or estimé, Où tousjours l’amoureux se voyoit contre-aimé. Puisse arriver apres l’espace d’un long âge, Qu’un esprit vienne à bas sous le mignard ombrage Des Myrthes, me conter que les âges n’ont peu Effacer la clairté qui luist de nostre feu : Mais que de voix en voix de parole en parole Nostre gentille ardeur par la jeunesse vole, Et qu’on apprend par cœur les vers et les chansons Qu’Amour chanta pour vous en diverses façons, Et qu’on pense amoureux celuy qui rememore Vostre nom et le mien et nos tumbes honore. Or il en adviendra ce que le ciel voudra, Si est-ce que ce Livre immortel apprendra Aux hommes et aux temps et à la renommee Que je vous ay six ans plus que mon cœur aimee. | My second soul, so that the coming age May remember our youthful love, And that your beauty which I have long loved May not be lost in the tomb, consumed by years, Without leaving some mark of you behind itself, I consecrate here to you the liveliest part of me, The spirit of my spirit, which will make you live again For a long time or forever, as long as this book lasts. Those who will read the verse I have sung for you In a varied style, a mix of bitter and sweet In accord with the passions you’ve aroused in me, Will consider you a goddess; and the more the years Fly fleeting by, the more your beauty In despite of age will grow old in its novelty. O my fair lass of Anjou, o my sweet Marie, My eyes, my heart, my blood, my spirit and my life, Whose virtue shows me a path straight to heaven, I get such pleasure when I kiss your eyes, When I linger over them, when I look at them, That, if it were not for a fear which holds back my hand, I would have killed myself since I have no power To show you in deed how much I am yours. Still, what I can do I want to do here: I want to perfect your praises as I sing of you, And never to feel my work paralysed So that my whole work for you should not be heard. If I were a great king, as an eternal example Of faithful love, I would build a temple Upon the bank of the Loire, and this temple would be called The temple of Ronsard and of his Marion. Your effigy would be of Parian marble, Your dress would be spread out with deep-carved Folds embroidered with gold, your piled-up hair Would be enlaced in waves with golden fillets. With crisp cinnamon would be covered Your divine head, and the rare openings Of a net of silk and gold, made by the hardworking hand Of Arachne or of Pallas, would cover your breast. Your mouth would be filled with roses, Breathing throughout the temple a lovely scent. You would have the gracious bearing of a Hebe, And a swarm of cupids would fly from your eyes, You would hold up the high top of his honourable temple Right on top of a venerable pillar. And I, seated on the other side of the same space Would be prominent in the form of a god; I would have curved in my left hand A half-moon bow, just as you see reborn In the first days of the month the curve of a crescent moon, And I’d have on the bowstring a fine arrow menacing Not the serpent Python but that foolish young man Who now calls you his life and his soul And who alone, cheating me, is king of your heart, And who you’ll fond in the end is deceiving your love. Whoever he is, may he fade away as he lives; May he, hated by everyone, hate himself; May he gnaw his heart, and see his designs Always escape like wind from his hands; Suspicious and arrogant dreamer, may he be lonely And always displeasing to himself! I’d have on my head a laurel branch, I’d have at my side a fine warlike sabre, My sword would be gold, and the fine hilt Would resemble the gold of your combed hair: I would have a golden lyre, and next to it I’d have A quiver filled with flaming darts. This temple, host of many a solemn feast, Would surpass in glory that of the immortals, And we would be invoked in vows every day Like the new gods of faithful love. From age to following age, at the return of the year, We would have ordained a festival by the temple Not for racing, like the ancients, Coupled chariots in the Olympic games, Or for jumping, wrestling, or with flying limbs Negotiating the dusty race, panting; Instead, all the young people from the surrounding countryside, Struck deep in their hearts by the dart of Love, Their souls warmed by its gentle fire, Would assemble at the temple with their girlfriends; And there, he who best placed his lips Upon his beloved’s lips, and most sweetly kissed – Whether with a dry or a wet kiss, A long or a short kiss, with a kiss which leads The soul onto the lips and leaves the kisser Dying, who lives only on the memory, Or with a kiss given like the doves When they make love with beaks and wings. He who has learned to kiss the best Would take the prizeabove all the other youths, Would be called the winner of Cytherea’s kisses, And covered in flowers would go home to his mother. At the feet of my altar in this new temple Would burn the watch-fire of an eternal torch, And these contests would be named after my life The games which Ronsard made for his fair Marie. O my fair mistress, how wish That Love had joined us with similar ties, And that after our deaths, in our shadowy graves, We might be the song of amorous lips: That the people of the Vendôme might say with one accord, Visiting the tomb under which I would be dead, “Our Ronsard, leaving his Loir and Gastine, Fell in love at Bourgueil with a fair lass of Anjou”; And that the people of Anjou might say with one voice, “Our fair Marie loved a man from Vendôme, The two had but one heart, and their mutual love Which we no longer see here was for them everlasting; O truly fortunate age, age considered golden, In which a lover always found himself loved in return.” May it happen that, after the space of a long age, A spirit might come down below the dear shade Of the myrtle, to tell me that the ages have not been able To efface the brightness which shines from our fire; But that from voice to voice, from speech to speech, Our gentle ardour flies among the young people, And that they learn by heart the verse and songs Which Love sang for you in varying forms, And that they consider a lover is he who recalls Your name and mine and honours our tombs. Then will result what heaven wishes, That this immortal book should teach Men and their times and fame That I have loved you more than my heart for six years. |
Marie, à celle fin que le siecle à venir De nos jeunes amours se puisse souvenir, Et que vostre beauty, que j’ay long temps aimée Ne se perde au tombeau, par les ans consumée, Sans laisser quelque marque après elle de soy, Je vous consacre icy le plus gaillard de moy, L’esprit de mon esprit, qui vous fera revivre Ou long temps, ou jamais, par l’âge de ce livre. Ceux qui liront les vers que j’ay chantez pour vous D’un stile qui varie entre l’aigre et le doux, Selon les passions que vous m’avez données, Vous tiendront pour déesse ; et tant plus les années En volant s’enfuiront, et plus vostre beauté Contre l’âge croistra, vieille en sa nouveauté. O ma belle Angevine ! ô ma douce Marie ! Mon œil, mon cœur, mon sang, mon esprit et ma vie, Dont la vertu me monstre un droit chemin aux cieux ! Je reçoy tant de bien quand je baise vos yeux, Quand je languis dessus et quand je les regarde, Que, sans une frayeur qui la main me retarde, Je me serois occis de dueil que je ne peux Vous monstrer par effect le bien que je vous veux. Or cela que je puis, pour vous je le veux faire : Je veux, en vous chantant, vos louanges parfaire, Et ne sentir jamais mon labeur engourdy Que tout l’ouvrage entier pour vous ne soit ourdy. Si j’estois un grand roy, pour eternel exemple De fidelle amitié, je bastirois un temple Dessus le bord de Loire, et ce temple auroit nom Le temple de Ronsard et de sa Marion. De marbre parien seroit vostre effigie, Vostre robe seroit à plein fons eslargie De plis recamez d’or, et vos cheveux tressez Seroient de filets d’or par ondes enlassez. D’un crespe canelé seroit la couverture De vostre chef divin, et la rare ouverture D’un reth de soye et d’or, fait de l’ouvriere main D’Arachne ou de Pallas, couvriroit vostre sein ; Vostre bouche seroit de roses toute pleine, Respandant par le temple une amoureuse haleine ; Vous auriez d’une Hebé le maintien gracieux, Et un essein d’Amours sortiroit de vos yeux ; Vous tiendriez le haut bout de ce temple honorable, Droicte sur le sommet d’un pilier venerable. Et moy, d’autre costé, assis au plus bas lieu, Je serois remarquable en la forme d’un dieu ; J’aurois, en me courbant, dedans la main senestre Un arc demy-vouté, tel que l’on voit renaistre Aux premiers jours du mois le reply d’un croissant, Et j’aurois sur la corde un beau traict menassant, Non le serpent Python, mais ce sot de jeune homme Qui maintenant sa vie et son ame vous nomme, Et qui seul, me fraudant, est roy de vostre cœur, Qu’en fin en vostre amour vous trouverez mocqueur. Quiconque soit celuy, qu’en vivant il languisse, Et de chacun hay luy-mesme se haysse ; Qu’il se ronge le cœur, et voye ses dessains Tousjours luy eschapper comme vent de ses mains, Soupçonneux et réveur, arrogant, solitaire, Et luy-mesme se puisse à luy-mesme desplaire. J’aurois dessur le chef un rameau de laurier, J’aurois dessur le flanc un beau poignard guerrier ; La lame seroit d’or, et la belle poignée Ressembleroit à l’or de ta tresse peignée ; J’aurois un cistre d’or, et j’aurois tout auprès Un carquois tout chargé de flammes et de traits. Ce temple, frequenté de festes solennelles, Passeroit en honneur celuy des immortelles, Et par vœux nous serions invoquez tous les jours, Comme les nouveaux dieux des fidelles amours. D’âge en âge suivant, au retour de l’année Nous aurions près le temple une feste ordonnée, Non pour faire courir, comme les anciens, Des chariots couplez aus jeux olympiens, Pour saulter, pour lutter, ou de jambe venteuse Franchir en haletant la carriere poudreuse ; Mais tous les jouvenceaux des pays d’alentour, Touchez au fond du cœur de la fleche d’Amour, Aiant d’un gentil feu les ames allumees, S’assembleroient au temple avecques leurs aimées ; Et là celuy qui mieux sa lévre poseroit Sur la lévre amoureuse, et qui mieux baiseroit, Ou soit d’un baiser sec ou d’un baiser humide, D’un baiser court ou long, ou d’un baiser qui guide L’ame dessur la bouche, et laisse trespasser Le baiseur, qui ne vit sinon que du penser, Ou d’un baiser donné comme les colombelles, Lors qu’elles font l’amour et du bec et des ailes ; Celuy qui mieux seroit en tels baisers appris Sur tous les jouvenceaux emporteroit le prix, Seroit dit le vainqueur des baisers de Cythere, Et tout chargé de fleurs s’en-iroit à sa mere. [Aux pieds de mon autel, en ce temple nouveau, Luiroit le feu veillant d’un eternel flambeau, Et seroient ces combats nommez, apres ma vie, Les jeux que fit Ronsard pour sa belle Marie.] O ma belle maistresse ! hé ! que je voudrois bien Qu’Amour nous eust conjoint d’un semblable lien, Et qu’après nos trespas, dans nos fosses ombreuses, Nous fussions la chanson des bouches amoureuses ; Que ceux de Vendomois dissent tous d’un accord, Visitant le tombeau sous qui je serois mort : « Nostre Ronsard, quittant son Loir et sa Gastine, A Bourgueil fut épris d’une belle Angevine », Et que ceux-là d’Anjou dissent tous d’une vois : « Nostre belle Marie aimoit un Vendomois ; Tous les deux n’estoient qu’un, et l’amour mutuelle, Qu’on ne void plus icy, leur fut perpetuelle. Leur siecle estoit vrayment un siecle bienheureux, Où tousjours se voyoit contre-aimé l’amoureux ! » Puisse arriver, apres l’espace d’un long âge, Qu’un esprit vienne à bas, sous l’amoureux ombrage Des myrtes, me conter que les âges n’ont peu Effacer la clarté qui luist de nostre feu, Mais que de voix en voix, de parole en parole, Nostre gentille amour par la jeunesse vole, Et qu’on apprend par cœur les vers et les chansons Que j’ai tissus pour vous en diverses façons, Et qu’on pense amoureux celuy qui rememore Vostre nom et le mien et nos tombes honore ! Or les dieux en feront cela qu’il leur plaira ; Si est-ce que ce livre après mille ans dira Aux hommes et au temps, et à la Renommée, Que je vous ay six ans plus que mon cœur aimée. | Marie, to the end that the age to come May remember our youthful love, And that your beauty which I have long loved May not be lost in the tomb, consumed by years, Without leaving some mark of you behind itself, I consecrate here to you the liveliest part of me, The spirit of my spirit, which will make you live again For a long time or forever, as long as this book lasts. Those who will read the verse I have sung for you In a style which varies between bitter and sweet In accord with the passions you’ve aroused in me, Will consider you a goddess; and the more the years Fly fleeting by, the more your beauty In despite of age will grow old in its novelty. O my fair lass of Anjou, o my sweet Marie, My eyes, my heart, my blood, my spirit and my life, Whose virtue shows me a path straight to heaven, I get so much good from kissing your eyes, When I linger over them, when I look at them, That, if it were not for a fear which holds back my hand, I would have killed myself from grief that I cannot Show you in deed the good that I wish you. Still, what I can do I want to do for you: I want to perfect your praises as I sing of you, And never to feel my work paralysed So that my whole work for you should not be heard. If I were a great king, as an eternal example Of faithful love, I would build a temple Upon the bank of the Loire, and this temple would be called The temple of Ronsard and of his Marion. Your effigy would be of Parian marble, Your dress would be spread out with deep-carved Folds embroidered with gold, your piled-up hair Would be enlaced in waves with golden fillets. With crisp cinnamon would be covered Your divine head, and the rare openings Of a net of silk and gold, made by the hardworking hand Of Arachne or of Pallas, would cover your breast. Your mouth would be filled with roses, Breathing throughout the temple a lovely scent. You would have the gracious bearing of a Hebe, And a swarm of cupids would fly from your eyes, You would hold up the high top of his honourable temple Right on top of a venerable pillar. And I, seated on the other side in a lower place Would be prominent in the form of a god; I would have curved in my left hand A half-moon bow, such as you see reborn In the first days of the month the curve of a crescent moon, And I’d have on the bowstring a fine arrow menacing Not the serpent Python but that foolish young man Who now calls you his life and his soul And who alone, cheating me, is king of your heart, And who you’ll fond in the end is deceiving your love. Whoever he is, may he fade away as he lives; May he, hated by everyone, hate himself; May he gnaw his heart, and see his designs Always escape like wind from his hands; Suspicious and arrogant dreamer, may he be lonely And always displeasing to himself! I’d have on my head a laurel branch, I’d have at my side a fine warlike sabre, The blade would be gold, and the fine hilt Would resemble the gold of your combed hair: I would have a golden lyre, and next to it I’d have A quiver filled with flaming darts. This temple, host of many a solemn feast, Would surpass in glory that of the immortals, And we would be invoked in vows every day Like the new gods of faithful love. From age to following age, at the return of the year, We would have ordained a festival by the temple Not for racing, like the ancients, Coupled chariots in the Olympic games, Or for jumping, wrestling, or with flying limbs Negotiating the dusty race, panting; Instead, all the young people from the surrounding countryside, Struck deep in their hearts by the dart of Love, Their souls warmed by its gentle fire, Would assemble at the temple with their girlfriends; And there, he who best placed his lips Upon his beloved’s lips, and who kissed the best – Whether with a dry or a wet kiss, A long or a short kiss, with a kiss which leads The soul onto the lips and leaves the kisser Dying, who lives only on the memory, Or with a kiss given like the doves When they make love with beak and wings. He who has learned to kiss the best Would take the prizeabove all the other youths, Would be called the winner of Cytherea’s kisses, And covered in flowers would go home to his mother. [At the feet of my altar in this new temple Would burn the watch-fire of an eternal torch, And these contests would be named after my life The games which Ronsard made for his fair Marie.] O my fair mistress, how wish That Love had joined us with similar ties, And that after our deaths, in our shadowy graves, We might be the song of amorous lips: That the people of the Vendôme might say with one accord, Visiting the tomb under which I would be dead, “Our Ronsard, leaving his Loir and Gastine, Fell in love at Bourgueil with a fair lass of Anjou”; And that those from Anjou might say with one voice, “Our fair Marie loved a man from Vendôme, The two were but one, and their mutual love Which we no longer see here was for them everlasting; Their age was truly a happy age, In which the lover always found himself loved in return.” May it happen that, after the space of a long age, A spirit might come down below the loving shade Of the myrtle, to tell me that the ages have not been able To efface the brightness which shines from our fire; But that from voice to voice, from speech to speech, Our gentle love flies among the young people, And that they learn by heart the verse and songs Which I’ve created for you in varying forms, And that they consider a lover is he who recalls Your name and mine and honours our tombs. Then the gods can do with it what they want, Since this book a thousand years hence will tell Men and their times, and Fame too, That I have loved you more than my heart for six years. |
Amours 2:43
Another of the Marie/Sinope poems, this time focusing on her sweet-smelling breath rather than her eye-problems! Much more gallant …
Blanchemain’s version again keeps Sinope’s name not Marie’s at the beginning (“Sinope, que je sers en trop cruel destin”); otherwise the only change is at the start of the sestet, where Ronsard replaced his first thoughts, the more vivid “vos tetins“, with the less tactile and perhaps less titillating “vostre sein” (above).Amours 2:46
To interpret the uncertainty of my fate,
And, if it is true, make him strike down my eyes, No more to wake, with the sleep of death.Amours 2:41
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. |
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. |