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

Today, nearly 200 lines of charming verse – twice!

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

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

 

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

 

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

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

 – Apelles is the ‘type’ of a great painter

 – Mars and Venus simply personify war and love

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

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

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

 – the Graces, simply personifying ‘grace’ here

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

 

 

 

Amours 1.193

Ces flots jumeaux de laict bien espoissi

Vont et revont par leur blanche valée,

Comme à son bord la marine salée,

Qui lente va, lente revient aussi.

 

Une distance entre eux se fait, ainsi

Qu’entre deux monts une sente égalée,

Blanche par tout de neige devalée,

Quand en hyver le vent s’est adouci.

 

Là deux rubis haut eslevez rougissent,

Dont les rayons cet yvoire finissent

De toutes parts uniment arondis :

 

Là tout honneur, là toute grace abonde :

Et la beauté, si quelqu’une est au monde,

Vole au sejour de ce beau paradis.

 

 

 

                                                                            Those twin swellings of creamy milk

                                                                            Flow back and forth over their white valley

                                                                            Like the salty sea at its edge

                                                                            Which slowly flows in, and slowly returns again;

 

                                                                            A gap there is between them, as

                                                                            Between two hills a path runs down the midst,

                                                                            White all over with fallen snow,

                                                                            When in winter the wind has abated.

 

                                                                            There two rubies redden, standing tall,

                                                                            Whose shining finishes that ivory,

                                                                            Rounded on all sides equally;

 

                                                                            There all honour, all grace abound;

                                                                            And beauty, if there is any in the world,

                                                                            Flies to lodge in this fair paradise. 

 

 

 

Technically, the breasts in line 1 are like ‘milk that’s been well-clotted’: in English that sounds pretty awful, we think of cream as good, clots as bad [though clotted cream is perhaps an exception], so I’ve translated for meaning rather than literally.

 

You’d think this didn’t need much tweaking. But in fact you can see it was improved: Blanchemain’s opening is the less involving “Les flots jumeaux …”, and in the second quatrain he has

 

Qu’entre deux monts une sente égalée,

En tous endroits de neige devalée,

Sous un hiver doucement adouci

 

                                                                            Between two hills a path runs down the midst,

                                                                            In every part covered in snow,

                                                                            In a winter gently softened.

 

 

 

 

 

Amours 1.179

En me bruslant il faut que je me taise :

Car d’autant plus qu’esteindre je me veux,

Plus le desir me r’allume les feux

Qui languissoient sous une morte braise.

 

Si suis-je heureux (et cela me r’apaise)

De plus souffrir que souffrir je ne peux,

Et d’endurer le mal dont je me deulx.

Je me deulx ? non, mais dont je suis bien aise.

 

Par ce doux mal j’adoroy la beauté

Qui me liant d’une humble cruauté,

Me desnoüa les liens d’ignorance.

 

Par luy j’appris les mysteres d’Amour,

Par luy j’appris que pouvoit l’esperance,

Par luy mon ame au ciel fit son retour.

 

 

 

                                                                            As I burn I must be silent ;

                                                                            For as much as I want to extinguish them

                                                                            So much more desire re-lights those fires

                                                                            Which lie beneath a dying flame.

 

                                                                            So happy am I (and that soothes me)

                                                                            To suffer more than I can suffer

                                                                            And to endure the pain which grieves me;

                                                                            Grieves? No: which pleases me.

 

                                                                            Through this sweet pain I adore the beauty

                                                                            Who, binding me with meek cruelty,

                                                                            Looses me from the bonds of ignorance.

 

                                                                            Through her I learn the mysteries of love,

                                                                            Through her I learn what hope can do,

                                                                            Through her my soul returns to heaven.

 

 

 

What a lovely poem: a simple, single image, and a fantastic last tercet.  (I think I need to have another go at lines 3-4 sometime: not sure this translation really holds together as an image!) Blanchemain’s version has a number of differences, including the end! The later version is so much better…

 

 

Las ! force m’est qu’en bruslant je me taise,

Car d’autant plus qu’esteindre je me veux,

Plus le desir me r’allume les feux

Qui languissoient sous la morte braise.

 

Si suis-je heureux (et cela me r’appaise)

De plus souffrir que souffrir je ne peux,

Et d’endurer le mal dont je me deulx ;

Je me deulx, non, mais dont je suis bien aise.

 

Par ce doux mal j’adoroy la beauté

Qui, me liant d’une humble cruauté,

Me desnoua les liens d’ignorance.

 

Par luy me vint ce vertueux penser

Qui jusqu’au ciel fit mon cœur elancer,

Ailé de foy, d’amour et d’esperance.

 

 

                                                                            Alas, I am forced as I burn to be silent

                                                                            For the more I try to extinguish them

                                                                            The more desire re-lights those fires

                                                                            Which lie beneath the dying flame.

 

                                                                            So happy am I (and that soothes me)

                                                                            To suffer more than I can suffer

                                                                            And to endure the pain which grieves me;

                                                                            Grieves? No: which pleases me.

 

                                                                            Through this sweet pain I adore the beauty

                                                                            Who, binding me with meek cruelty,

                                                                            Looses me from the bonds of ignorance.

 

                                                                            Through her comes to me that virtuous thought

                                                                            Which makes my heart leap to heaven,

                                                                            Winged with faith, love and hope. 

 

 

 

 

 

Amours 1.177

Au mesme lict où pensif je repose,

Presque ma Dame en langueur trespassa

Devant-hier, quand la fiévre effaça

Son teint d’œillets, et la lévre de rose.

 

Une vapeur avec sa fiévre esclose,

Dedans le lict son venin me laissa,

Qui par destin, diverse m’offensa

D’une autre fiévre en mes veines enclose.

 

L’un apres l’autre elle avoit froid et chaud :

Ne l’un ne l’autre à mon mal ne default :

Et quand l’un croist, l’autre ne diminue.

 

L’accés fiévreux tousjours ne la tentoit,

De deux jours l’un sa chaleur s’alentoit :

Je sens tousjours la mienne continue.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            In the same bed where I lie thoughtfully

                                                                            My Lady nearly drooped and died

                                                                            The day before yesterday, when fever wiped away

                                                                            Her carnation-pink tint and the rose from her lips.

 

                                                                            A vapour wrapped up in her fever

                                                                            Left me its poison in the bed

                                                                            Which, by fate, assaulted me in various ways

                                                                            With another fever shut within my veins.

 

                                                                            One after another, she was hot and cold;

                                                                            Neither one nor the other took away my pain;

                                                                            And when one grew, the other did not lessen.

 

                                                                            The feverish bout is not still attacking her;

                                                                            Of the two days one was when the heat went down;

                                                                            But I still feel my own continuing.

 

 

 

(No commentary needed; and no variants as I haven’t found this one in Blanchemain so far!)

 

 

 

 

 

Poems 1.18 – The Marigold / Worries

Although the poem is about the marigold, the French word also means ‘cares’ or ‘worries’ – particularly in Ronsard, the troubles of a lover. Here there is a subtext throughout, a message to his lady about the pain she causes him. The title in Blanchemain’s version, ‘the marigold in the garden’, sets the expectation of a rather less ambiguous poem, perhaps.

Le Souci   Je veux chanter, Cherouvrier, le Souci Qui te plaist tant et qui me plaist aussi : Non les soucis dont Amour me fait guerre, Mais les Soucis estoiles de la terre : Ains les Soleils des jardins, tant ils sont Jaunes, luisans et dorez sur le front.   La rose emporte (empourprant son espine) Le premier lieu à cause d’Erycine, Et du beau sang d’Adon qui la peingnit : L’Oeillet apres qu’Apollon contraingnit Joüer au disque, et qui le fist occire Sans y penser à l’amoureux Zephire, Et fut depuis aux Spartes un grand Dieu.   Ces deux, Souci, ont eu le premier lieu, Toy le troisiesme, et s’il n’y a fleurette Ny giroflée, ou double violette, Genest, josmin plus odorant que toy : Au moins, Souci, s’il n’est vray, je le croy.   Soit que ma Dame autrefois m’ait donnée Ta couleur jaune, ou que l’ame inclinée A voir, sentir et contempler ta fleur, Sur tous parfums j’estime ton odeur : Jamais repas ne me fut agreable, Si ton bouton n’enfleurit une table, Salade, pain, et toute la maison Aux plus beaux mois de la prime saison : Car de couleur ta couleur je ressemble, Tu es, Souci, mon frere ce me semble.   Tu es tout jaune, et tout jaune je suis Pour trop d’amour qu’effacer je ne puis.   Printemps, Hyver, tu gardes ta verdure : Printemps, Hyver, le soin d’amour me dure.   Double est ta fleur, ta fleur est simple aussi, Mon cœur est simple, et vit tousjours ainsi : Mais mes pensers et mes ennuis sont doubles Selon les yeux et farouches et troubles De ma Maistresse, et mon soin est doublé Si son œil est ou farouche ou troublé.   Quand le Soleil ton amoureux s’abaisse Dedans le sein de Tethys son hostesse, Allant revoir le pere de la mer, On voit ton chef se clorre et se fermer Palle, desfait : mais quand sa tresse blonde De longs cheveux s’esparpille sur l’onde Se resveillant, tu t’esveilles joyeux, Et pour le voir tu dessilles tes yeux, Et sa clarté est seule ton envie, Un seul Soleil te donnant mort et vie.   Quand je ne voy mon beau Soleil levé, De toutes parts un sommeil agravé Dessus le front des tenebres me donne, Si qu’esblouy je ne cognois personne.   Mais aussi tost que ses rais dessus moy Me font un jour, des yeux du cœur je voy Mille beautez, tant sa gentille flame En m’esclairant me reluist dedans l’ame, Et loin du corps dont je suis empesché, Tient mon esprit aux Astres attaché.   On dit, Souci, quand au bras on te lie, Que tu guaris de la melancholie. Or en cela nous sommes differens : Ce que je voy, tout triste je le rens Ainsi que moy, tant il sort de tristesse Hors de mes yeux pour ma rude Maistresse, Qui froide et lente et morne en amitié Mon pauvre cœur ne veut prendre à pitié, Me consommant d’amour, tant elle est belle : Et je veux bien me consommer pour elle.   Adieu Souci, si Cherouvrier passant Par son jardin voit ton chef florissant, Qui toute fleur au temps d’Hyver surpasse, Que l’Aube engendre et qu’une nuict efface, Te voyant naistre aussi tost que fanir : Soir et matin fay le moy souvenir Que nostre vie aux fleurettes resemble, Qui presque vit et presque meurt ensemble : Et ce-pendant qu’il est en son printemps, Vive amoureux et n’espargne le temps.   Si en naissant ce grand Maistre qui donne Heur et malheur à chacune personne, M’avoit donné, mon Cherouvrier, ta vois Dont tu flechis les peuples et les Rois, Comme estant seul de France la merveille Pour attirer une ame par l’oreille : Je chasserois la fiévre de mon corps Par la douceur de tant de beaux accords.   En lieu d’avoir ta nombreuse Musique J’ay l’autre ardeur, la vérve poëtique, Qui rompt ma fiévre et charme mon souci, Ou s’il n’est vray, je me console ainsi.   Donq si j’avois ceste voix si divine, Present du ciel qui sort de ta poitrine, Je chanterois : mais ne pouvant chanter, De l’autre ardeur il me faut contenter.

The Marigold   I shall sing, Cherouvrier, of the marigold Which pleases you so, and pleases me too ; Not the cares with which Love makes war on me But the flowery stars of the earth, Like suns in the garden, so yellow Are they, shining gold on their brows.   The rose (em-purpling its thorns) takes First place, because of Erycine [Venus of Mt Eryx] And the fair blood of Adonis which colours it ; The carnation next, which Apollo made Play at the discus and whom Zephyr made him kill Without considering his lover, And was afterward a great god to the Spartans.   These two, marigold, have first place, You the third, and indeed there is no flower, Not the wallflower nor double-violet, Broom nor jasmine more sweet-smelling than you ; At least, marigold, that’s what I believe, true or not.   Whether my Lady had once given me Your yellow tint, or whether my soul was inclined To look at, smell and consider your flower, Above all perfumes I esteem your odour ; Never was a meal pleasing to me Unless your bud flowered on the table, Salad, bread and all the house In the fairest months of the best season ; Because in my colour your colour I resemble You are, marigold, my brother, it seems.   You are all yellow, and I am all yellow From too much love, nor can I wipe it away.   In Spring and Winter, you keep your freshness ; In Spring and Winter, love’s cares linger in me.   Double is your flower, but single too ; My heart is single, and lives always thus ; But my thoughts and cares are doubled Because of the timid, troubled eyes Of my mistress, and my care is doubled If her eyes are either timid or troubled.   When the sun, your lover, sets Within the breast of Tethys his hostess, Going to see again the father of the sea, We see your bloom close, lock itself away Pale and undone ; but when his yellow locks Scatter their long hair over the waves As he awakes again, then you wake joyfully And open your eyes to see him And his brightness is your only desire, The Sun alone bringing you death and life.   When I do not see my own Sun arise, From every side a painful sleep Gives me shadows on my brow, So that, dazzled, I recognise no-one.   But as soon as her rays shine daylight Upon me, with my heart’s eyes I see A thousand beauties, so much does her noble flame Shining on me lighten again my soul, And, far from the body with which I am weighted down, Keeps my spirit bound to the stars.   They say, marigold, that when we tie you to our arm You will cure melancholy. Well, in that we are different : Whatever I see, I make unhappy Like I am myself, so much sadness flows From my eyes for my harsh mistress, Who – cold, slow and sad in loving – Does not want to take pity on my poor heart, Consuming me with love, so beautiful she is ; And I’d willingly consume myself for her.   Farewell, marigold : if Cherouvrier passes By your garden and sees your flowering head Which surpasses all flowers in winter-time, Which Dawn brings to birth and a single night extinguishes, Seeing you born as quick as fading ; Night and day remind him for me That our life is like that of the flowers Who virtually live and die at the same moment ; And yet while he is in his springtime Let him live, love, and not spare of his time.   If at birth that great Master who gives Fortune and misfortune to each person Had given me, my Cherouvrier, your voice With which you sway peoples and Kings, As if the sole wonder in France Able to draw out the soul through the ears, I would drive away the fever from my body Through the sweetness of so many fine harmonies.   Instead of having your many-faceted Music I have that other passion, poetic inspiration, Which breaks my fever and charms away my cares – Or so I console myself, even if it is not true.   So, if I had your god-like voice, Which emerges from your breast like a gift from heaven, I would sing : but being unable to sing, With that other passion I must content myself.

 

We met Guillaume Cherouvrier a while back in one of Ronsard’s more cynical poems, so it is good to find him here as the recipient of something far less cynical!  You may recall he was a member of the Royal Chapel, hence the reference to ‘his music’ near the end of the poem.

 

Tethys in the middle of the poem is the sun’s ‘hostess’ because she is a sea-nymph, and of course the sun spends his nights in the sea. Adonis, near the beginning, is more usually associated with the blood-red anemone, though it’s obvious why the rose could also fit; he links closely to Venus (who loved him) but not especially to her cult on Mt Eryx in Sicily.  The three lines about the carnation are confusing, not least because you need to know the story to be able to work out who is doing what to whom! The carnation here replaces the hyacinth: Hyacinth was loved by Apollo, but also by Zephyr who, while Apollo and Hyacinth were throwing the discus, blew it off course so that Apollo’s throw killed Hyacinth. So here the meaning is that Apollo made Hyacinth play, Zephyr made Apollo kill him, sacrificing his own love to spite Apollo. (Apollo transformed the blood of Hyacinth into a flower, marked with his tears or the blood depending on the version of the myth and the flower it represents!)

 

I should just mention the ‘double / single’ antithesis in the middle of the poem. Ronsard’s words are “double / simple”, so that each time something is ‘single’ it is also ‘simple’. I have reluctantly chosen ‘single’, so that the antithesis works, but I feel that the other meaning, of simplicity, is really the one that should come through!

 

Let’s have a look at the variant texts offered by Blanchemain: 

 

Le Souci du Jardin   Au Sieur Cherouvrier Excellent musicien   Je veux chanter, Cherouvrier, le Souci Qui te plaist tant, et qui me plaist aussi ; Non les soucys qui tout le cœur nous serre, Mais les Soucis, estoilles d’un parterre, Ains les soleils des jardins, tant ils sont Jaunes, luisans, et dorez sur le front.   La rose emporte (empourprant son espine) Le premier lieu à cause d’Erycine, Et du beau sang d’Adon qui la peingnit ; L’œillet après qu’Apollon contraingnit Jouer au disque, et qui le fit occire Sans y penser à l’amoureux Zephyre, Et fut depuis aux Spartes un grand Dieu.   Ces deux, Soucy, ont eu le premier lieu, Toy le troisiesme, et s’il n’y a fleurette, Ny giroflée, ou double violette, Genest, josmin plus odorant que toy ; Au moins, Souci, s’il n’est vray, je le croy.   Soit que ma dame autresfois m’ait donnée Ta couleur jaune, ou que l’âme inclinée A voir, sentir, et contempler ta fleur, Sur tous parfums j’estime ton odeur ; Jamais repas ne me fut agreable, Si ton bouton n’enfleurit une table, Salade, pain, et toute la maison Aux plus beaux mois de la prime saison ; Car de couleur, Soucy, je te ressemble, Tu es, Soucy, mon frere, ce me semble.   Tu es tout jaune, et tout jaune je suis Pour trop d’amour qu’effacer je ne puis.   Printemps, hyver, tu gardes ta verdure ; Printemps, hyver, le soin d’amour me dure.   Double tu es et simple. Quant à moy J’ay simple cœur et j’ay simple la foy ; Mais mes pensers et mes ennuis sont doubles Selon les yeux et farouches et troubles De ma maistresse, et mon soin est doublé Si son œil est ou farouche ou troublé.   Quand le soleil, ton amoureux, s’abaisse Dedans le sein de Tethys son hostesse, Allant revoir le pere de la mer, On voit ton chef se clorre et se fermer Palle, défait ; mais quand sa tresse blonde De longs cheveux s’esparpille sur l’onde Se réveillant, tu t’éveilles joyeux, Et pour le voir tu dessiles tes yeux, Et sa clarté est seule ton envie, Un seul soleil te donnant mort et vie.   Quand je ne voy les yeux de mon soleil, De toutes parts un aggravé sommeil Dessus le front des tenebres me donne, Si qu’esblouy je ne cognois personne.   Mais aussi tost que ses rais dessus moy Me font un jour, d’yeux et de cœur je voy Mille beautez, tant sa gentille flame En m’éclairant me reluit dans l’ame, Et loin du corps dont je suis empesché, Tient mon esprit aux astres attaché.   On dit, Souci, quand au bras on te lie, Que tu guaris de la melancholie. Or en cela nous sommes differens ; Ce que je voy, tout triste je le rens Ainsi que moy, tant il sort de tristesse Hors de mes yeux pour ma rude maistresse, Qui froide et lente, et morne en amitié Mon pauvre cœur ne veut prendre à pitié, Me consommant d’amour, tant elle est belle ; Et je veux bien me consommer pour elle.   Adieu, Souci ! si Cherouvrier, passant Par son jardin, voit ton chef florissant, Qui toute fleur au temps d’hyver surpasse, Que l’aube engendre et qu’une nuict efface, Te voyant naistre aussi tost que fanir ; Soir et matin fay-le-moy souvenir Que nostre vie aux fleurettes ressemble, Qui presque vit, et presque meurt ensemble ; Et ce-pendant qu’il est en son printemps, Vive amoureux et n’espargne le temps.   Si en naissant ce grand maistre qui donne Heur et mal-heur à chacune personne, M’avoit donné, mon Cherouvrier, ta vois Dont tu flechis les peuples et les Rois, Comme estant seul de France la merveille Pour attirer une âme par l’aureille ; Je chasserois la fiévre de mon corps Par la douceur de mes divers accords.   En lieu d’avoir ta nombreuse musique, J’ay l’autre ardeur, la verve poëtique, Qui rompt ma fiévre et charme ma langueur, Me fait gaillard et me tient en vigueur.   Doncq’ si j’avois ceste voix si divine, Present du ciel, qui sort de ta poitrine, Je chanterois ; mais ne pouvant chanter, D’escrire en vers il me faut contenter.

The garden Marigold   To my lord Cherouvrier An excellent musician   I shall sing, Cherouvrier, of the marigold Which pleases you so, and pleases me too ; Not the cares which grip our whole heart But the flowery stars of a lawn, Like suns in the garden, so yellow Are they, shining gold on their brows.   The rose (em-purpling its thorns) takes First place, because of Erycine And the fair blood of Adonis which colours it ; The carnation next, which forced Apollo Play at the discus and made him kill Without considering it the amorous Zephyr, And was afterward a great god to the Spartans.   These two, marigold, have first place, You the third, and indeed there is no flower, Not the wallflower nor double-violet, Broom nor jasmine more sweet-smelling than you ; At least, marigold, that’s what I believe, true or not.   Whether my Lady had once given me Your yellow tint, or whether my soul was inclined To look at, smell and consider your flower, Above all perfumes I esteem your odour ; Never was a meal pleasing to me Unless your bud flowered on the table, Salad, bread and all the house In the fairest months of the best season ; Because my colour resembles yours, marigold, You are, marigold, my brother, it seems.   You are all yellow, and I am all yellow From too much love, nor can I wipe it away.   In Spring and Winter, you keep your freshness ; In Spring and Winter, love’s cares linger in me.   Double you are and single too ; as for me, I have a single heart and my faithfulness is single too ; But my thoughts and cares are doubled Because of the timid, troubled eyes Of my mistress, and my care is doubled If her eyes are either timid or troubled.   When the sun, your lover, sets Within the breast of Tethys his hostess, Going to see again the father of the sea, We see your bloom close, lock itself away Pale and undone ; but when his yellow locks Scatter their long hair over the waves As he awakes again, then you wake joyfully And open your eyes to see him And his brightness is your only desire, The Sun alone bringing you death and life.   When I do not see the eyes of my own sun, From every side a painful sleep Gives me shadows on my brow, So that, dazzled, I recognise no-one.   But as soon as her rays shine daylight Upon me, with my eyes and heart I see A thousand beauties, so much does her noble flame Shining on me lighten again my soul, And, far from the body with which I am weighted down, Keeps my spirit bound to the stars.   They say, marigold, that when we tie you to our arm You will cure melancholy. Well, in that we are different : Whatever I see, I make unhappy Like I am myself, so much sadness flows From my eyes for my harsh mistress, Who – cold, slow and sad in loving – Does not want to take pity on my poor heart, Consuming me with love, so beautiful she is ; And I’d willingly consume myself for her.   Farewell, marigold : if Cherouvrier passes By your garden and sees your flowering head Which surpasses all flowers in winter-time, Which Dawn brings to birth and a single night extinguishes, Seeing you born as quick as fading ; Night and day remind him for me That our life is like that of the flowers Who virtually live and die at the same moment ; And yet while he is in his springtime Let him live, love, and not spare of his time.   If at birth that great Master who gives Fortune and misfortune to each person Had given me, my Cherouvrier, your voice With which you sway peoples and Kings, As if the sole wonder in France Able to draw out the soul through the ears, I would drive away the fever from my body Through the sweetness of my varied harmonies.   Instead of having your many-faceted Music I have that other passion, poetic inspiration, Which breaks my fever and charms away my pining, Makes me jolly and keeps me vigorous.   So, if I had your god-like voice, Which emerges from your breast like a gift from heaven, I would sing : but being unable to sing, With writing in verse I must content myself.

 

Note that the variant of line 3 is placed by Blanchemain in a footnote and his ‘preferred’ text retains the same line 3 as in Marty-Laveaux. In mid-poem I find the text “dans l’ame” odd – it scans but only painfully, and the revised version (“dedans l’ame”) works so much more easily!

 

 

 

Chanson – Amours 2:67d

Quand ce beau Printemps je voy,      J’apperçois Rajeunir la terre et l’onde Et me semble que le jour,      Et l’amour, Comme enfans naissent au monde.    Le jour qui plus beau se fait,      Nous refait Plus belle et verte la terre : Et Amour armé de traits      Et d’attraits, En nos cœurs nous fait la guerre.    Il respand de toutes parts      Feux et dards Et domte sous sa puissance Hommes Bestes et Oiseaux,      Et les eaux Luy rendent obeïssance.    Vénus avec son enfant      Triomphant Au haut de son Coche assise, Laisse ses cygnes voler      Parmy l’air Pour aller voir son Anchise.     Quelque part que ses beaux yeux      Par les cieux Tournent leurs lumieres belles, L’air qui se monstre serein,      Est tout plein D’amoureuses estincelles.    Puis en descendant à bas      Sous ses pas Naissent mille fleurs écloses : Les beaux liz et les œillets      Vermeillets Rougissent entre les roses.     Je sens en ce mois si beau      Le flambeau D’Amour qui m’eschauffe l’ame, Y voyant de tous costez      Les beautez Qu’il emprunte de ma Dame.    Quand je voy tant de couleurs      Et de fleurs Qui esmaillent un rivage, Je pense voir le beau teint      Qui est peint Si vermeil en son visage.    Quand je voy les grand rameaux      Des ormeaux Qui sont lassez de lierre, Je pense estre pris és laz      De ses bras, Et que mon col elle serre.     Quand j’entens la douce vois      Par les bois Du gay Rossignol qui chante, D’elle je pense jouyr      Et ouyr Sa douce voix qui m’enchante.    Quand je vois en quelque endroit      Un Pin droit, Ou quelque arbre qui s’esleve, Je me laisse decevoir,      Pensant voir Sa belle taille et sa gréve.    Quand je voy dans un jardin,      Au matin S’esclorre une fleur nouvelle, J’accompare le bouton      Au teton De son beau sein qui pommelle.    Quand le Soleil tout riant      D’orient Nous monstre sa blonde tresse, Il me semble que je voy      Davant moy Lever ma belle maistresse.    Quand je sens parmy les prez      Diaprez Les fleurs dont la terre est pleine, Lors je fais croire à mes sens      Que je sens   La douceur de son haleine.   Bref je fais comparaison      Par raison Du Printemps et de m’amie : Il donne aux fleurs la vigueur,      Et mon cœur D’elle prend vigueur et vie.    Je voudrois au bruit de l’eau      D’un ruisseau Desplier ses tresses blondes, Frizant en autant de nœus      Ses cheveux Que je verrois frizer d’ondes.    Je voudrois pour la tenir,      Devenir Dieu de ces forests desertes, La baisant autant de fois      Qu’en un bois Il y a de fueilles vertes.    Hà maistresse mon soucy,      Vien icy, Vien contempler la verdure : Les fleurs de mon amitié      Ont pitié, Et seule tu n’en as cure.    Au moins leve un peu tes yeux      Gracieux, Et voy ces deux colombelles, Qui font naturellement      Doucement L’amour du bec et des ailes :    Et nous sous ombre d’honneur,      Le bon heur Trahissons par une crainte : Les oiseaux sont plus heureux      Amoureux, Qui font l’amour sans contrainte.    Toutesfois ne perdons pas      Nos esbats Pour ces loix tant rigoureuses : Mais si tu m’en crois vivons,      Et suivons Les colombes amoureuses.   Pour effacer mon esmoy,      Baise moy, Rebaise moy ma Deesse : Ne laissons passer en vain      Si soudain Les ans de notre jeunesse.

When I see the fair Springtime I recognise Earth and sea renewing their youth And it seems to me that Day And Love Like children are born into the world.   Day which makes itself lovelier, Makes the earth again Lovelier and greener for us, And Love armed with charms And harms Makes war on us in our hearts.   He looses in all directions His fiery darts And overcomes with his power Men, beasts and birds, And even the waters Give him obedience.   Venus with her Triumphant son Sitting up high on her couch Sets her swans flying Through the air To go and see her Anchises.   Wherever her lovely eyes Around the heavens Turn their fair light, The air, remaining calm, Is filled With sparks of love.   Then coming down low Under her feet A thousand flowers blooming are born; Fair lilies and bright red Carnations Redden among the roses.   In this month so lovely, I feel The flame Of Love warming my soul, Seeing there on all sides The beauties Which it has borrowed from my Lady.   When I see so many colours And flowers Studding a riverbank, I imagine I see the fair colour Which paints Her complexion so pink.   When I see the great branches Of the elms Which are laced with ivy, I imagine being taken into the lakes Of her arms And her supporting my neck.   When I hear the soft voice Of the happy nightingale Singing in the woods, I imagine enjoying her And hearing Her soft voice which enchants me.   When I see in some place A tall pine Or some other tree growing tall I allow myself to be deceived And imagine I see Her lovely shape and size.   When I see in a garden In the morning A new flower opening, I compare its bud With the nipple Of her fair breast, swelling.   When the sun, smiling In the east, Shows us his golden tresses, I imagine I see Before me My fair mistress arising.   When I spy the meadows Dotted With the flowers which fill the earth, Ah then I make my senses believe That I feel The softness of her breath.   In short, I make the comparison, With good reason Of Springtime with my beloved; One gives the flowers their new strength, And my heart Takes from the other its strength and life.   I’d like, to the sound of the water Of some stream To untie her blonde tresses Curling her hair into So many knots That I’d see waves curling.   I’d like, so I could hold her, To become God of these empty forests, Kissing her as many times As there are Green leaves in a wood.   Ah, my mistress, my desire, Come here Come and consider the greensward; The flowers take pity On my love And only you care not.   At least lift your gracious eyes A little And see these two doves Who quite naturally And sweetly Make love with beak and wings.   And we, beneath the shade of honour Betray Our happiness through fear: The birds are luckier Lovers Who make love without constraint.   Still, let us not give up Our frolics For these too restrictive laws; But if you trust me, let’s live Let’s copy The amorous doves.   To sweep away my anguish Kiss me Kiss me again, my goddess! Don’t let them go by empty And quickly, These years of our youth!

 

 One of Ronsard’s most famous poems – and deservedly so.

 

We met Venus & Anchises recently; also Zephyr the warm west wind.

 

Perhaps surprisingly there are no many variants between versions; though he did remove stanzas here and there as he revised. So in Blanchemain’s version, after the 6th stanza (just before “Je sens en ce mois si beau”) there is an extra stanza:

 

Celuy vrayment est de fer

   Qu’eschaufer

Ne peut sa beauté divine,

Et en lieu d’humaine chair

   Un rocher

Porte au fond de la poitrine

 

 

                                                          He indeed is made of iron

                                                             Whom her divine

                                                          Beauty cannot set afire,

                                                          And in place of human flesh

                                                             A rock

                                                          He carries deep in his breast.

 

 

Then, 4 stanzas later, just before the tall pine:

 

Quand Zephyre meine un bruit

   Qui se suit

Au travers d’une ramée,

Des propos il me souvient

   Que me tient

Seule à seul ma bien aimée.

 

 

                                                          When Zephyr’s sound

                                                             Chases itself

                                                          Through the branches,

                                                          I recall her words

                                                             Which keep me

                                                          Alone with my beloved alone.

 

 

Additionally there are a few minor changes:  in the 3rd stanza Love looses “Feu et dards” (‘His fiery darts’) in the 2nd line; 3 stanzas later, beneath her feet “Croissent mille fleurs écloses” (‘Grow a thousand flowers blooming’); and just before Zephyr (above) he hears the soft voice “Du beau rossignol” (‘Of the fair nightingale’) in the woods.

 

Incidentally, I love the way (in the middle of the poem) he bends the word ‘tetin’ into ‘teton’ to rhyme with ’bouton’, and makes it sound like a form of endearment at the same time!

 

 

 

 

 

Odes 5.11

 

Sur toute fleurette déclose J’aime la senteur de la rose Et l’odeur de la belle fleur Qui de la premiere couleur Pare la terre, quand la glace Et l’hyver au soleil font place   Les autres boutons vermeillets, La giroflée et les œillets, Et le bel esmail qui varie L’honneur gemmé d’une prairie En mille lustres s’esclatant ; Ensemble ne me plaisent tant Que fait la rose pourperette, Et de Mars la blanche fleurette,   Que puis-je, pour le passetemps Que vous me donnez le printemps Prier pour vous deux autre chose, Sinon que toy, pourprine rose, Puisses toujours avoir le sein En mai de rosée tout plein, Et que jamais le chaut qui dure En juin ne te fasse laidure ?   Ny à toy, fleurette de mars, Jamais l’hyver, lorsque tu pars Hors de la terre, ne te face Pancher morte dessus la place ; Ains toujours, maugré la froideur Puisses-tu de ta soefve odeur Nous annoncer que l’an se vire Plus doux vers nous, et que Zephyre Après le tour du fascheux temps Nous ramene le beau printemps.

Above all the flowers that bloom I love the scent of the rose, And the perfume of the fair flower Which with its initial colour Adorns the earth when ice And winter take the sun’s place.   The other crimson buds, The wallflower, the carnation, The beautiful carpet which variously spreads The bejewelled glory of a meadow With a thousand glowing colours bursting out, Together do not please me as much As does the purple rose And the white flower of Mars.   How can I, for the pleasant times Which you give me in spring, Beg anything else for the two of you Unless that you, crimsoned rose, Might always be able to keep your breast All filled with pink in May ; And may the heat which lasts so long In June never make you ugly.   And for you, flower of Mars, In winter as you emerge From the earth may it never make you Wilt dead upon the ground; So may you always, despite the cold, Be able with your pleasing odour To announce to us that the year is veering More gently towards us, and that Zephyr [West wind] After the turn of the dreary weather Is bringing us back the fine springtime.

 

Once again a beautiful little lyric. And once again the elusive ‘flower of Mars’ appears!

 

Blanchemain offers us a variant of the third stanza’s second half (“Puisses tousjours…” onwards), from 1587:

 

 

Du teint de honte accompagné

Sois toujours en may rebaigné

De la rosée qui doux glisse,

Et jamais juin ne te fanisse ?

 

 

                                                              Accompanied by the tint of shame

                                                              Might always be re-bathed in May

                                                              With the rosy pink which softly slips away,

                                                              And that June might never fade you.

 

 

 

Chanson – Amours 2:66a

At the end of Amours 2 (Marie) Ronsard places a cluster of chansons and other lyrics. Time to have a look at them!

Quand j’estois libre, ains qu’une amour nouvelle Ne se fut prise en ma tendre moëlle,      Je vivois bien-heureux, Comme à l’envy les plus accortes filles Se travailloyent par leurs flammes gentilles,      De me rendre amoureux.    Mais tout ainsi qu’un beau Poulain farouche, Qui n’a masché le frein dedans la bouche,      Va seulet escarté, N’ayant souci sinon d’un pied superbe A mille bonds fouler les fleurs et l’herbe,      Vivant en liberté :    Ores il court le long d’un beau rivage, Ores il erre en quelque bois sauvage      Fuyant de sault en sault : De toutes parts les Poutres hanissantes Luy font l’amour pour néant blandissantes,      A luy qui ne s’en chaut.    Ainsi j’allois desdaignant les pucelles, Qu’on estimoit en beauté les plus belles,      Sans respondre à leur vueil : Lors je vivois amoureux de moy-mesme, Content et gay, sans porter couleur blesme      Ny les larmes à l’œil.    J’avois escrit au plus haut de la face Avec l’honneur une agreable audace      Plaine d’un franc desir : Avec le pied marchoit ma fantaisie Où je voulois sans peur ne jalousie      Seigneur de mon plaisir.    Mais aussi tost que par mauvais desastre Je vey ton sein blanchissant comme albastre,      Et tes yeux deux soleils, Tes beaux cheveux espanchez par ondées, Et les beaux lis de tes lévres bordées      De cent œillets vermeils :    Incontinent j’appris que c’est service. La liberté de mon ame nourrice,      S’eschappa loin de moy : Dedans tes rets ma premiere franchise Pour obeïr à ton bel œil, fut prise      Esclave sous ta loy.    Tu mis cruelle en signe de conqueste, Comme veinqueur tes deux pieds sur ma teste,      Et du front m’a osté L’honneur, la honte, et l’audace première, Acouhardant mon ame prisonniere,      Serve à ta volonté.    Vengeant d’un coup mille fautes commises, Et les beautez qu’à grand tort j’avois mises      Par-avant à mespris, Qui me prioyent en lieu que je te prie : Mais d’autant plus que merci je te crie,      Tu es sourde à mes cris,    Et ne respons non plus que la fontaine Qui de Narcis mira la forme vaine,      En vengeant à son bord Mille beautez des Nymphes amoureuses, Que cest enfant par mines desdaigneuses      Avoit mises à mort.

When I was free, and a novel love Had not been caught in my tender marrow,    I lived happily; How the most attractive girls competitively Worked hard with their gentle flames    To make me fall in love!   But just as a handsome wild colt Which has not chewed the curb in his mouth    Wanders far and wide by himself, Having no care except with his proud foot To trample with a thousand leaps the flowers and grass,    Living in liberty;   Sometimes he runs along a fair riverbank, Sometimes he wanders in some wild wood    Fleeing with leap upon leap; And on every side whinnying fillies Make love to him, flattering him for nothing,    He who cares nothing for it.   Just so I used to disdain the maids That everyone thought fairest of the fair,    Without responding to their wishes; Then, I was in love with myself, Happy and joyful, not wearing this pale colour    Nor with tears in my eyes.   I had written on my forehead, Together with honour, a pleasant audacity Filled with frank desire; My imagination advanced with my feet Wherever I wanted, without fear or jealousy, The master of my pleasure.   But as soon as through terrible misfortune I saw your breast white as alabaster    And your eyes, twin suns, Your fine hair pouring down in waves, And the fair lilies of your lips bordered    With a hundred pink carnations,   Straightway I learned what it is to be in service, And liberty, the nurse of my soul,    Fled far from me; Within your nets my earlier freedom Was caught, so that it obeyed your fair eyes,    A slave beneath your law.   As a sign of your conquest you cruelly placed Your two feet on my head, as conqueror,    And took from my brow Honour, shame, and my earlier boldness Rendering my imprisoned soul a coward,    Servant to your desires.   Avenging with one blow a thousand faults I’d committed And the beauties whom, greatly in the wrong, I had held Before this in scorn Who had begged me, instead now I beg you. But as often as I beg for mercy from you,    You are deaf to my cries   And respond no more than the fountain Which showed Narcissus the image of his shape    Taking revenge on its bank For the thousand beauteous nymphs in love Which that boy, with his scornful manner,    Had put to death.

 

 

As with so many of Ronsard’s lyrics, the fluency and apparent inevitability of his lines is amazing. It seems so easy, so natural – and yet it makes perfect poetry, it rhymes and scans as if by chance. Wonderful.

 

But as we know, that’s the result of hard work & lots of re-working. Some variants in Blanchemain’s version to demonstrate the process.  The opening is different, there is an extra stanza, one of the existing stanzas is largely different, and there are plenty of other minor variants.  Easiest to see the whole thing again:

 

Quand j’estois libre, ains que l’amour cruelle Ne fust esprise encore en ma mouelle,      Je vivois bien-heureux, Comme à l’envy les plus accortes filles Se travailloyent par leurs flammes gentilles,      De me rendre amoureux.    Mais tout ainsi qu’un beau Poulain farouche, Qui n’a masché le frein dedans la bouche,      Va seulet escarté, N’ayant souci sinon d’un pied superbe A mille bonds fouler les fleurs et l’herbe,      Vivant en liberté :    Ores il court le long d’un beau rivage, Ores il erre en quelque bois sauvage      Ou sur quelque mont haut ; De toutes parts les Poutres hanissantes Luy font l’amour pour néant blandissantes,      A luy qui ne s’en chaut.    Ainsi j’allois desdaignant les pucelles, Qu’on estimoit en beauté les plus belles,      Sans respondre à leur vueil : Lors je vivois amoureux de moy-mesme, Content et gay, sans porter couleur blesme      Ny les larmes à l’œil.    J’avois escrit au plus haut de la face Avec l’honneur une agreable audace      Plaine d’un franc desir : Avec le pied marchoit ma fantaisie De ça, de la, sans peur ne jalousie,    Vivant de mon plaisir.   Mais aussi tost que par mauvais desastre Je vey ton sein blanchissant comme albastre,      Et tes yeux deux soleils, Tes beaux cheveux espanchez par ondées, Et les beaux lis de tes lévres bordées      De cent œillets vermeils :    Incontinent j’appris que c’est service. La liberté, de ma vie nourrice,      Fuit ton œil felon Comme la nue en temps serein poussée Fuit à grands pas l’haleine courroucée      De l’oursal Aquilon.   [Et lors tu mis mes deux mains à la chaisne Mon col au cep et mon cœur à la gesne,    N’ayant de moy pitié, Non plus, helas ! qu’un outrageux corsaire, (O fier Destin) n’a pitié d’un forcère      A la chaisne lié.]   Tu mis apres en signe de conqueste, Comme veinqueur tes deux pieds sur ma teste,      Et du front m’a osté L’honneur, la honte, et l’audace première, Acouhardant mon ame prisonniere,      Serve à ta volonté.    Vengeant d’un coup mille fautes commises, Et les beautez qu’à grand tort j’avois mises      Par-avant à mespris, Qui me prioyent en lieu que je te prie : Mais d’autant plus que merci je te crie,      Tu es sourde à mes cris,    Et ne respons non plus que la fontaine Qui de Narcis mira la forme vaine,      Vengeant dessus son bord Mille beautez des Nymphes amoureuses, Que cest enfant par mines desdaigneuses      Avoit mises à mort.

When I was free,and cruel love Had not yet taken hold in my marrow,    I lived happily; How the most attractive girls competitively Worked hard with their gentle flames    To make me fall in love!   But just as a handsome wild colt Which has not chewed the curb in his mouth    Wanders far and wide by himself, Having no care except with his proud foot To trample with a thousand leaps the flowers and grass,    Living in liberty;   Sometimes he runs along a fair riverbank, Sometimes he wanders in some wild wood    Or on some high mountain; And on every side whinnying fillies Make love to him, flattering him for nothing,    He who cares nothing for it.   Just so I used to disdain the maids That everyone thought fairest of the fair,    Without responding to their wishes; Then, I was in love with myself, Happy and joyful, not wearing that pale colour    Nor with tears in my eyes.   I had written on my forehead, Together with honour, a pleasant audacity Filled with frank desire; My imagination advanced with my feet Wherever I wanted, without fear or jealousy, The master of my pleasure.   But as soon as through terrible misfortune I saw your breast white as alabaster    And your eyes, twin suns, Your fine hair pouring down in waves, And the fair lilies of your lips bordered    With a hundred pink carnations,    Straightway I learned what it is to be in service, Andliberty, the nurse of my life,    Fled your treacherous eye As a cloud in clear weather Flees at great pace when pushed by the angry breath    Of polar Aquilo.   [And then you put my two hands to the chain, My neck to the vine and my heart to shame, Having no pity on me, No more alas than a hostile corsair Has pity – o proud fate! – on a galley-slave Bound with a chain.]   As a sign of your conquest you then placed Your two feet on my head, as conqueror,    And took from my brow Honour, shame, and my earlier boldness Rendering my imprisoned soul a coward,    Servant to your desires.   Avenging with one blow a thousand faults I’d committed And the beauties whom, greatly in the wrong, I had held Before this in scorn Who had begged me, instead now I beg you. But as often as I beg for mercy from you,    You are deaf to my cries   And respond no more than the fountain Which showed Narcissus the image of his shape    Taking revenge on its bank For the thousand beauteous nymphs in love Which that boy, with his scornful manner,    Had put to death.

 

Just a few words about “l’oursal Aquilon” in the middle of the poem:  ‘oursal’ indicates ‘of the bear’ here indicating the Pole Star in the constellation of the Little Bear – which points north, where Aquilo, the north wind, blows from.  (Blanchemain puts the following stanza in [brackets] without explanation – this usually means it disappeared quite early on from the published editions.

 

 

 

 

 

 

De la defloration de Lede (Odes 3:20)

Time for one of Ronsard’s longer poems, I think! This is one of his mythological extravaganzas, and its topic is the ‘Defloration of Leda’ – it is dedicated to Cassandre(!)

Ronsard divides it into 3 ‘pauses’ or parts; and there are two alternative openings (the later 1587 one printed by Blanchemain in a footnote). For simplicity I’ve shown the two at the beginning of the poem. I’ve also added a number of ‘footnotes’, indicated in the text to make it easier to locate them.

Premier pause   Le cruel Amour, vainqueur De ma vie, sa sujette, M’a si bien écrit au cœur Votre nom de sa sagette, Que le temps, qui peut casser Le fer et la pierre dure, Ne le sauroit effacer Qu’en moi vivant il ne dure.   [alternative opening (1587) : Amour, dont le traict vainqueur Fait en mon sang sa retraite, M’a si bien escrit au cœur Le nom de ma Cassandrette, Que le tombeau mange-chair, Logis de la pourriture, Ne pourra point arracher De mon cœur sa pourtraiture.]   Mon luth, qui des bois oyans Souloit alléger les peines, Las ! de mes yeux larmoyans Ne tarit point les fontaines ; Et le soleil ne peut voir, Soit quand le jour il apporte, Ou quand il se couche au soir, Une autre douleur plus forte.   Mais vostre cœur obstiné, Et moins pitoyable encore Que l’Ocean mutine Qui baigne la rive more, Ne prend mon service à gré, Ains d’immoler envie Le mien, à luy consacré Des premiers ans de ma vie.   Jupiter, espoinçonné De telle amoureuse rage, A jadis abandonné Et son trône et son orage ; Car l’œil qui son cœur estraint, Comme estraints ores nous sommes Ce grand seigneur a contraint De tenter l’amour des hommes.   Impatient du desir Naissant de sa flame esprise, Se laissa d’amour saisir, Comme une despouille prise. Puis il a, bras, teste et flanc, Et sa poitrine cachée Sous un plumage plus blanc Que le laict sur la jonchée.   Et son col mit un carcan Avec une chaîne où l’œuvre Du laborieux Vulcan Admirable se descœuvre. D’or en estoient les cerceaux, Piolez d’émail ensemble. A l’arc qui note les eaux Ce bel ouvrage ressemble.   L’or sur la plume reluit D’une semblable lumiere Que le clair œil de la nuit Dessus la neige premiere. Il fend le chemin des cieux Par un voguer de ses ailes, Et d’un branle spatieux Tire ses rames nouvelles.   Comme l’aigle fond d’en haut, Ouvrant l’espais de la nue, Sur l’aspic qui leche au chaud Sa jeunesse revenue, Ainsi le cygne voloit Contre-bas, tant qu’il arrive Dessus l’estang où souloit Jouer Lede sur la rive.   Quand le ciel eut allumé Le beau jour par les campagnes, Elle au bord accoustumé Mena jouer ses compagnes ; Et, studieuse des fleurs En sa main un pannier porte Peint de diverse couleurs Et peint de diverse sorte.     Seconde pause   D’un bout du pannier s’ouvroit, Entre cent nues dorées, Une aurore qui couvroit Le ciel de fleurs colorées ; Ses cheveux vagoient errans, Souflez du vent des narines Des prochains chevaux tirans Le soleil des eaux marines.   Comme au ciel il fait son tour Par sa voye courbe et torte, Il tourne tout a l’entour De l’anse en semblable sorte. Les nerfs s’enflent aux chevaux Et leur puissance indontée Se lasse sous les travaux De la penible montée.   La mer est peinte plus bas, L’eau ride si bien sur elle, Qu’un pescheur ne nieroit pas Qu’elle ne fust naturelle. Ce soleil tombant au soir Dedans l’onde voisine entre A chef bas se laissant cheoir Jusqu’au fond de ce grand ventre.   Sur le sourci d’un rocher Un pasteur le loup regarde, Qui se haste d’approcher, Du couard peuple qu’il garde ; Mais de cela ne luy chaut, Tant un limas luy agrée, Qui lentement monte au haut D’un lis au bas de la prée.   Un satyre tout follet, Larron, en folastrant tire La panetiere et le laict D’un autre follet satyre. L’un court après tout ireux, L’autre defend sa despouille, Le laict se verse sur eux, Qui sein et menton leur souille.   Deux beliers qui se heurtoient Le haut de leurs testes dures Pourtraits aux deux bords estoient Pour la fin de ses peintures. Tel pannier en ses mains mist Lede, qui sa troupe excelle, Le jour qu’un oiseau la fist Femme en lieu d’une pucelle.   L’une arrache d’un doigt blanc Du beau Narcisse les larmes, Et la lettre teinte au sang Du Grec marry pour les armes. De crainte l’œillet vermeil Pallist entre ces pillardes, Et la fleur que toy, Soleil, Des cieux encor tu regardes.   A l’envi sont jà cueillis Les verds tresors de la plaine, Les bassinets et les lis, La rose et la marjolaine, Quand la vierge dit ainsi, De son destin ignorante : « De tant de fleurs que voicy Laissons la proye odorante.   « Allons, troupeau bien-heureux, Que j’aime d’amour naïve, Ouyr l’oiseau douloureux Qui se plaint sur nostre rive. » Et elle, en hastant le pas, Fuit par l’herbe d’un pied vite ; Sa troupe ne la suit pas, Tant sa carriere est subite ;   Du bord luy tendit la main, Et l’oiseau, qui tressaut d’aise, S’en approche tout humain, Et le blanc yvoire baise. Ores l’adultere oiseau, Au bord par les fleurs se joue, Et ores au haut de l’eau Tout mignard près d’elle noue.   Puis, d’une gaye façon, Courbe au dos l’une et l’autre aile, Et au bruit de sa chanson Il apprivoise la belle. La nicette en son giron Reçoit les flammes secrettes, Faisant tout à l’environ Du cygne un lict de fleurettes.   Luy, qui fut si gracieux, Voyant son heure opportune, Devint plus audacieux, Prenant au poil la fortune. De son col comme ondes long Le sein de la vierge touche, Et son bec luy mit adonc Dedans sa vermeille bouche.   Il va ses ergots dressant Sur les bras d’elle qu’il serre, Et de son ventre pressant Contraint la rebelle à terre. Sous l’oiseau se debat fort, Le pince et le mord, si est-ce Qu’au milieu de tel effort Ell’ sent ravir sa jeunesse.   Le cinabre çà et là Couloura la vergongneuse. A la fin elle parla D’une bouche desdaigneuse : « D’où es-tu, trompeur volant ? D’où viens-tu, qui as l’audace D’aller ainsi violant Les filles de noble race ?    « Je cuidois ton cœur, helas ! Semblable à l’habit qu’il porte, Mais (hè pauvrette ! ) tu l’as, A mon dam, d’une autre sorte. O ciel ! qui mes cris entens, Morte puissé-je estre enclose Là bas, puis que mon printemps Est despouillé de sa rose !   « Plustost vien pour me manger, O veufve tigre affamèe, Que d’un oiseau estranger Je sois la femme nommée. » Ses membres tombent peu forts, Et dedans la mort voisine Ses yeux jà nouoient, alors Que luy respondit le cygne :   Troisiesme pause   « Vierge, dit-il, je ne suis Ce qu’à me voir il te semble ; Plus grande chose je puis Qu’un cygne à qui je ressemble : Je suis le maistre des cieux, Je suis celuy qui desserre Le tonnerre audacieux Sur les durs flancs de la terre.   « La contraignante douleur Du tien, plus chaud, qui m’allume, M’a fait prendre la couleur De ceste non mienne plume. Ne te va donc obstinant Contre l’heur de ta fortune : Tu seras incontinant La belle-sœur de Neptune,   « Et si tu pondras deux œufs De ma semence feconde, Ainçois deux triomphes neufs, Futurs ornemens du monde. L’un deux jumeaux esclorra : Pollux, vaillant à l’escrime, Et son frere, qu’on loûra Pour des chevaliers le prime ;   « Dedans l’autre germera La beauté, au ciel choisie, Pour qui un jour s’armera L’Europe contre l’Asie. » A ces mots, elle consent, Recevant telle avanture, Et jà de peu à peu sent Haute eslever sa ceinture.

Cruel Love, conqueror Of my life, his subject, Has written so well in my heart Your name with his arrow That time, which can break Iron and hard stone, Could not wipe it away Such that it will not last in me while alive.     Love, whose conquering dart Has made its home in my blood, Has so well written in my heart The name of my little Cassandre That the flesh-eating tomb, Where decay lives, Could not take any part From my heart of her portrait.   My lute, which is accustomed To lessening the woes of the listening woods, Alas, dries not the fountains Of my weeping eyes; And the sun cannot see, Either when he brings the day Or when he goes to bed at night, Any other grief more strong.   But your stubborn heart, Less pitiful still Than the unruly ocean Which bathes the Moorish coast, Does not like my service, But wants to sacrifice My own, consecrated to it From the earliest years of my life.   Jupiter, excited By a similar passionate love, Once abandoned His throne and his storm; For his eye, which compelled his heart As sometimes our hearts are compelled, Compelled this great lord To try a human love.   Impatient with the desire Growing from his love-struck flame, He gave himself over to love Like the captured spoils of war. Then his arms, head and flanks And his breast he head Beneath a plumage whiter Than milk on scattered rushes.   And his neck wore a collar With a chain, on which the work Of hard-working Vulcan Could be seen and admired. The hoops were of gold Together with enamel of many colours. The bow which the waters draw This lovely piece of work resembled.   Gold shone out on his feathers With a light like The bright eye of the night On a first snow. He cleaved his path through the heavens With the sail of his wings, And with a measured beat He pulled his new oarage.   As the eagle swoops from on high, Making an opening in the thick clouds, Upon the asp which, in the heat, licks Its recovered youthfulness;1 So the swan flew Down here to arrive Upon the pool where Leda Was accustomed to play on the bank.   When fair day had lit The sky over the fields, She led her companions to play On the usual bank And fascinated by flowers She bore in her hand a basket Painted in many colours And painted many ways.         On one end of the basket was shown2 Amidst a hundred golden clouds A Dawn which covered The sky with colourful flowers; Her waving hair flying, Blown by the breath from the nostrils Of the nearby horses drawing The sun from the waters of the sea.3   As it makes its journey in the heavens On its curved, twisting route, It turns entirely around The handle [of the basket] in a similar way; The sinews on the horses swell And their undaunted power Tires under the labours Of the arduous climb.   The sea is painted below, The water ripples so well on it That a fisherman would not deny That it was natural; And the sun sinking at evening Into the waves beside, goes in With head lowered, letting itself fall Right to the bottom of its great belly.   On the brow of a rock A shepherd watches a wolf Which hastens to get near The cowardly race which he guards; But he cares not about that So much he is amused by a snail That slowly climbs to the top Of a lily, at the bottom of the meadow.   A frolicking satyr, A thief, as he frolics steals A basket and milk From another frolicking satyr; The one runs after him, utterly livid, The other defends his spoils, The milk gets tipped over them And soils their breasts and chins.   Two rams crashing together The tops of their hard heads Shown at the two edges were The last of its pictures. Such was the basket which Leda took In her hands, she who outshines her followers, On the day when a bird would make her A woman instead of a maid.   One [of the ladies] picked with her white fingers The tears of fair Narcissus, And the letters painted by the blood Of the Greek distraught over the armour. 4 In fear the pink carnation Pales amidst these looters, And so too the flower which you, o Sun, Still watch over from the heavens.   As competitively they were picking The green treasures of the plain, The buttercup and lily, The rose and marjoram, The maid spoke thus, Ignorant of her fate: “Leave your perfumed prey, The flowers that are so many here.   Come, my happy band Whom I love with an artless love, Come and hear the sad bird Who laments upon our riverbank.” And she, hurrying her steps, Ran through the grass with quick feet; Her band did not follow, So sudden was her flight.   On the bank, she held out her hand to it And the bird, which was fidgeting with pleasure, Approached her, entirely like a man, And kissed her white ivory. Sometimes the false bird 5 Played on the bank amidst the flowers, Sometimes on top of the water It swam, all daintily, near her.   Then in a jolly fashion It curved both wings over its back, And with the sound of its singing It tamed the fair maid. The silly girl felt His hidden fire in her lap, Making all around The swan little flowers of light.   He, from being so gracious, As he saw his opportune moment Became more daring, Going with fortune’s flow. With long waves of his neck He touched the maid’s breast And then placed his beak Within her crimson mouth.   Putting his spurs upon The arms of her he grasped, And pressing down with his belly, He forced her, unwilling, to the ground. Beneath the swan she fought hard, Pinching and biting him, yet it was That in the midst of her efforts She felt her youth stolen away.   Cinnabar here and there Coloured the shamed lass. In the end she spoke In a disdainful voice: “Where are you from, you flying deceiver? Where do you come from, who dare To go around thus raping Girls of noble race?   I thought your heart, alas, Was like the colours you wear, But – poor me! – you have one Of another sort, to my destruction. O heavens, who hear my cries, I would rather be dead and shut up Down below, since my springtime Has been stripped of its rose!   Rather come and eat me, Some hungry widowed tigress, Than that I should be called the wife Of some unknown bird.” Her limbs fell strengthless And her eyes were already swimming In death, her neighbout, when The swan replied thus to her:       “Maiden,” he said, “I am not What I seem to you as you see me; Greater things can I do Than the swan I appear; I am the master of the heavens, I am he who looses The insolent thunderbolts Upon the hard flanks of the earth.   A painful compulsion For your warmer [colour], which excites me, Made me take on the colour Of these feathers which are not mine. So do not go on complaining About the misfortune of your fate; You will forthwith be Neptune’s sister-in-law,   And so you will lay two eggs From my fruitful seed, And with them two new triumphs, Future ornaments of the world. One will disclose two twins: Pollux, valiant in the swordfight, And his brother who will be praised As the finest of horsemen;   Within the other will grow The beauty, chosen for heaven, For whom one day Europe Will take arms against Asia.” At these words, she accepted, Gaining such an outcome, And then little by little felt Her belt rising higher.

 

 Footnotes:

 ¹ i.e. its new skin after shedding the old² the description of what is painted on the basket, which fills the remainder of the poem, is a gentle parody of the descriptions of heroes’ shields in Homer and Virgil.

³ i.e. the sun’s chariot, pulled by fiery horses, rising from the sea at dawn

⁴ the narcissus grew from the tears of Narcissus; the ‘flower of Ajax’ [perhaps a fritillary (lily) or a larkspur] grew from the blood spilled at his suicide on failing to win the arms of Achilles, and the Greeks read its markings as the letters AI (= ‘ah, woe!’)

⁵ the French word means both ‘fake’ and ‘adulterous’; ‘false’ carries something of the same effect in English

 

 Those unfamiliar with the myth – which was a major source of inspiration to Renaissance artists – should glance at Wikipedia, or this indicative set of images! The reference in the last stanza is to Helen of Troy.

Sonnet 128

Ny ce coral qui double se compasse,

Sur meinte perle, un thresor d’Orient,

Ny ces beaux lis, qu’Amour en suppliant

Ose baiser, et jamais ne s’en lasse :

 

Ny ce bel or qui frisé s’entrelasse

En mille nouds crespez folastrement,

Ny ces œillets égalez proprement

Au blanc des liz encharnez dans sa face :

 

Ny de ce front le beau ciel esclarcy,

Ny le double arc de ce double sourcy,

N’ont à la mort ma vie condemnée :

 

Seuls les beaux yeux (où le certain Archer

Pour me tuer sa fleche vint cacher)

Devant le soir finissent ma journée.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            Not this coral which in double-row is set

                                                                            On many a pearl, a treasure of the East;

                                                                            Not these fair lilies which Love, pleading,

                                                                            Dares to kiss and never tires of;

 

                                                                            Not this fine gold which, curling, ties itself

                                                                            In a thousand knots, twisting and frisking;

                                                                            Not these pinks, neatly matched

                                                                            On the white of the lilies embodied in her cheeks;

 

                                                                            Not the fine clear sky of her face,

                                                                            Not the double bow of these double brows –

                                                                            These have not condemned my life to death;

 

                                                                            Solely the fair eyes, in which that sure Archer

                                                                            Had hidden his dart to kill me,

                                                                            Before evening have drawn my day to its close.

 

 

 

 

A lovely little poem – no commentary required!  (This one is not printed in Blanchemain’s edition of the first book.)