Tag Archives: Parnassus
Helen 2:57
Garnier’s tribute to Ronsard
It is SO long since I posted anything here: I hope to get going again & finish off Helen 2 at least. Meanwhile, it felt right to include Garnier’s tribute to the dead Ronsard – not least because my own attempt to preserve his memory has faltered …
This elegy was originally published in Binet’s memorial volume, Discours de la Vie de Pierre de Ronsard, in 1586. It was picked up and anthologised in 1778, in volume 8 of the Annales poétiques, ou Almanach des Muses, after which it reappeared several times elsewhere, copied from that anthology,and can now be found in several places on the web. But the 1778 anthologisers quietly abbreviated Garnier’s text – removing approximately 50% of it! So the versions found elsewhere are likewise abbreviated and I think this is the first time the full original text has been reproduced online.
Elégie sur le trespas de feu Monsieur de Ronsard A monsieur des Portes Abbé de Thiron Nature est aux humains sur tous autres cruelle, On ne voit animaux En la terre et au ciel, ny en l’onde infidele, Qui souffrent tant de maux. Le rayon eternel de l’essence divine, Qu’en naissant nous avons, De mille passions noz tristes jours épine Tandis que nous vivons : Et non pas seulement vivants il nous torture, Mais nous blesse au trespas, Car pour prevoir la mort, elle nous est plus dure Qu’elle ne seroit pas. Si tost que nostre esprit dans le cerveau raisonne, Nous l’alons redoutant, Et sans cette frayeur que la raison nous donne, On ne la craindroit tant. Nous creignons de mourir, de perdre la lumiere Du Soleil radieus, Nous creignons de passer sur les ais d’une biere Le fleuve stygieus. Nous creignons de laisser noz maisons delectables, Noz biens et noz honneurs, Ces belles dignitez, qui nous font venerables Remarquer des seigneurs. Les peuples des forests, de l’air et des rivieres, Qui ne voyent si loing, Tombent journellement aux mortelles pantieres Sans se gesner de soing. Leur vie est plus heureuse, et moins sujette aus peines, Et encombres divers, Que nous souffrons chetifs en noz ames humaines, De desastres couverts. Ores nous poind l’amour, Tyran de la jeunesse, Ores l’avare faim De l’or injurieus, qui fait que chacun laisse La vertu pour le gain. Cetuy-cy se tourmente apres les grandeurs vaines, Enflé d’ambition, De cetuy-la l’envie empoisonne les veines Cruelle passion. La haine, le courroux, le depit, la tristesse, L’outrageuse rancœur, Et la tendre pitié du foeble qu’on oppresse, Nous bourellent le cœur. Et voila nostre vie, ô miserables hommes ! Nous semblons estre nez Pour estre, cependant qu’en ce monde nous sommes, Tousjours infortunez. Et enquore, où le ciel en une belle vie Quelque vertus enclost, La chagrineuse mort qui les hommes envye Nous la pille aussi tost. Ainsi le verd email d’une riante prée Est soudain effacé, Ainsi l’aymable teint d’une rose pourprée Est aussi tost passé. La jeunesse de l’an n’est de longue durée, Mais l’Hyver aux dois gours, Et l’Esté embruny de la torche etherée Durent [orig : durant] presque toujours. Mais las ! ô doux Printems, vostre verdeur fanie Retourne en mesme point, Mais quand nostre jeunesse une fois est finie Elle ne revient point. La vieillesse nous prend maladive et facheuse, Hostesse de la mort, Qui pleins de mal nous pousse en une tombe creuse D’où jamais on ne sort. Des Portes, que la Muse honore et favorise Entre tous ceux qui ont Suivy le saint Phebus, et sa science aprise Dessur le double mont. Vous voyez ce Ronsard, merveilles de nostre age, L’honneur de l’Univers, Paitre de sa chair morte, inevitable outrage, Une source de vers. De rien vostre Apollon, ny les Muses pucelles Ne luy ont profité, Bien qu’ils eussent pour luy les deux croppes jumelles De Parnasse quitté : Et qu’ils eust conduits aux accords de sa Lire Dans ce François sejour, Pour chanter de noz Roys, et leurs victoires dire, Ou sonner de l’amour. C’est grand cas, que ce Dieu, qui des enfance l’aime, Afranchit du trespas Ses divines chansons, et que le chantre mesme N’en affranchisse pas. Vous en serez ainsi : car bien que vostre gloire, Espandue en tous lieux, Ne descende estoufée en une tombe noire Comme un peuple otieux, Et que voz sacrez vers, qui de honte font taire Les plus grands du metier, Nous facent choir des mains, quand nous en cuidons faire, La plume et le papier. Si verres vous le fleuve où tout le monde arrive, Et payrez le denier Que prend pour nous passer jusques à l’autre rive L’avare Nautonnier. Que ne ressemblons nous aus vagueuses rivieres Qui ne changent de cours ? Ou au branle eternel des ondes marinieres Qui reflotent toujours ? Et n’est-ce pas pitié, que ces roches pointues, Qui semblent depiter, De vents, de flots, d’oraige, et de foudres batues, L’ire de Jupiter, Vivent incessament, incessament demeurent Dans leurs membres pierreux, Et que des hommes, tels que ce grand Ronsard, meurent Par un sort rigoureux ? O destin lamentable ! un homme qui approche De la divinité Est ravy de ce monde, et le front d’une roche Dure un eternité. Qui pourra desormais d’une alaine assez forte Entonner comme il faut La gloir de mon Roy, puisque la muse est morte Qui le chantoit si haut ? Qui dira ses combats ? ses batailles sanglantes ? Quand jeune, Duc d’Anjou, De sa main foudroya les troupes protestantes Aux plaines de Poictou ? Des portes qui sera-ce ? une fois vostre Muse, Digne d’estre en son lieu, Fuyant l’honneur profane aujourdhuy ne s’amuse Qu’au loüanges de Dieu. Et qui sera-ce donc ? quelle voix suffisante, Pour sonner gravement Joyeuse nostre Achil, dont la gloire naissante S’acroist journellement ? Qui dira son courage, indomtable à la peine, Indomtable à la peur, Et comme il appareille avec une ame humaine Un magnanime cœur ? Comme il est de l’honneur, du seul honneur avare, D’autres biens liberal, Cherissant un chacun, fors celuy qui s’egare Du service royal ? Ne permette Clion et Phebus ne permette Que Ronsard abattu Par l’ennuyeuse mort, ne se treuve Poëte Qui chante sa vertu. Adieu, mon cher Ronsard, l’abeille en vostre tombe Face tousjour son miel, Que le baume Arabic à tout jamais y tombe, Et la manne du ciel. Le Laurier y verdisse avec le lierre Et le Mirthe amoureus, Riche en mille boutons, de toutes parts l’enserre Le Rosier odoreus : Le tin, le baselic, la franche Marguerite, Et nostre Lis François, Et cette rouge fleur, où la pleinte est escrite Du malcontent Gregeois. Les Nymphes de Gâtine, et les Nayades sainctes, Qui habitent le Loir, Le venant arroser de larmettes epreintes, Ne cessent de douloir. Las ! Cloton a tranché le fil de vostre vie D’une piteuse main, La voyant de vieillesse et de goutes suyvie, Torturage inhumain. Voyant la povre France en son corps outragee Par le sanglant effort De ses enfans, qui l’ont tant de foys ravagee, Soupirer à la mort : Le Souysse aguerry, qui aus combats se loüe, L’Anglois fermé de flots, Ceux qui boivent le Pau, le Tage et la Danoüe, Fondre dessus son dos. Ainsi que le Vautour, qui de griffes bourelles Va sans fin tirassant De Promethé le foye, en patures nouvelles Coup sur coup renaissant. Les meurtres inhumains se font entre les freres, Spectacle plein d’horreur, Et deja les enfans courent contre leurs peres D’une aveugle fureur : Le cœur des Citoyens se remplit de furies, Les Paysans ecartez Meurent comme une haye : on ne voit que turies Par les chams desertez. Et puis alez chanter l’honneur de nostre France En siecles si maudits, Attendez-vous qu’aucun vos labeurs recompense Comme on faisait jadis ? La triste povreté noz chansons accompaigne, La Muse, les yeus bas, Se retire de nous, voyant que lon dedaigne Ses antiques ebats. Vous estes donque heureus, et vostre mort heureuse, O Cigne des François, Ne lamentez que nous, dont la vie ennuyeuse Meurt le jour mile fois. Vous errez maintenant aux campaignes d’Elise, A l’ombre des Vergers, Où chargent en tout tems, asseurez de la Bise, Les jaunes Orengers : Où les prez sont toujours tapissez de verdure, Les vignes de raisins, Et les petits oyseaus, gasoüillans au murmure Des ruisseaus cristalins. Là le Cedre gommeus odoreusement sue, Et l’arbre du Liban, Et l’Ambre, et Myrrhe, au lit de son Pere receüe, Pleure le long de l’an. En grand’ foule acourus, autour de vous se pressent Les heros anciens, Qui boyvent le nectar, d’ambrosie se paissent, Aux bords Elisiens : Sur tous le grand Eumolpe, et le divin Orphee, Et Line, et Amphion, Et Musee, et celuy, dont la plume eschauffee Mist en cendre Ilion. Le loüengeur Thebain, le chantre de Mantoüe, Le Lyrique latin, Et aveques Seneque, honneur grand de Cordoüe, L’amoureus Florentin : Tous vont battant des mains, sautellent de liesse, S’entredisant entre eux, Voyla celuy, qui donte et l’Itale et la Grece En poëmes nombreus : L’un vous donne sa lyre, et l’au[t]re sa trompette, L’autre vous veut donner Son Myrthe, son Lierre, ou son Laurier profette, Pour vous en couronner. Ainsi vivez heureuse, ame toute divine, Tandis que le destin Nous reserve aus malheurs de la France, voysine De sa derniere fin. | Elegy on the death of the late M.de Ronsard To M. Desportes, abbot of Thiron Nature is to men above all others cruel, We do not see animals On earth or in the skies, or in the treacherous seas, Suffering so many ills. The eternal ray of the divine essence Which we receive at birth With a hundred passions troubles our sad days While we live. And not only while we live does it torture us, But injures us at our death, For foreseeing death is to us harder Than the event itself will be. As soon as our spirit reasons within our brains, We begin to fear it, And without this terror which reason gives us We would not be so frightened of it. We are frightened of dying, of losing the light Of the radiant Sun, We are frightened of crossing, on the planks of a bier, The Stygian river; We are frightened of leaving our delightful homes, Our goods and our honours, Those fine dignities which make us respected And noticed by lords. The inhabitants of the forests, the air and the rivers Who do not see so far, Fall daily to death-dealing snares Without troubling themselves with worries. Their life is happier, and less subject to the troubles And various burdens Which we weakly suffer in our human souls, Overcome by disasters. Sometimes love afflicts us, that tyrant of our youth, Sometimes the greedy hunger For harmful gold, which makes everyone abandon Virtue for gain. This man torments himself seeking empty greatness, Puffed up with ambition, That man’s veins are poisoned by envy, That cruel passion. Hatred, anger, spite, sorrow, Hurtful bitterness, And tender pity for the weak who are oppressed Bubble away in our hearts. And that’s our life, o wretched men! We seem to be born To be, while we are in this world, Always unfortunate. And even when heaven includes Some happiness in a good life, Sorrowful death which envies men Steals it from us soon enough. Just so the fresh mosaic of a gay meadow Is suddenly wiped away, Just so the lovely tint of a crimson rose Is soon enough past. The year’s youth does not last long, But Winter with his stiff fingers And Summer scorched by the heavenly flame Last almost forever. Alas, sweet Spring, your faded freshness Returns to the same state [each year] But when once our youth is finished It does not return. Old age takes us, sickly and disagreeable, Death’s hostess, And, full of ills, pushes us into a dug grave From which none ever escapes. Desportes, whom the Muse honours and favours Among all those of us who have Followed holy Apollo and learned his wisdom Upon the double mount: You see this Ronsard, the marvel of our age, The glory of the world, Feeding with his dead flesh – an inescapable indignity – A stream of worms. Nothing have your Apollo and his maiden Muses Profited him, Although for him they abandoned The twin mounts of Parnassus, And although they have spent time, to the harmonies of his lyre, In this France of ours, To sing of our Kings and announce their victories, Or to celebrate love. It’s very clear that the god who loved him from infancy Excepted from death His divine songs, and yet could not except from it The singer himself. It will be the same for you: for although your glory, Spreading to every place, Will not descend, smothered, into a dark tomb Like unproductive folk’s, And though your sacred verse, which for shame makes The greatest in the business fall silent, Makes the pen and paper fall from our hands, When we wish to use them: Yet still you will see the river where every man arrives, And you will pay the penny Which the greedy Boatman takes That we may pass to the other side. Why are we not like the rippling waters Which don’t change their course? Or the eternal movement of the sea’s waves Which break and break again? Isn’t it a pity that those sharp rocks Which seem to despise The winds, the tides, storms and battering of lightning, The anger of Jupiter, Live on eternally, remain eternally In their stony forms, And that men like the great Ronsard die By harsh fate? O grievous destiny! A man who approaches The divine Is stolen from this world, and a rock-face Lasts an eternity. Who will be able henceforth with so strong a voice To thunder as they should Of my King’s glory, since the muse is dead Who sang it so loudly? Who shall sing of his combats? Of his bloody battles? Who when young, as the Duke of Anjou, Overthrew with his might the protestant troops On the plains of Poitou … Deportes, who will it be? Once, perhaps, your muse Was worthy to be in his place; But fleeing worldly honours today she employs herself Only in the praise of God. So who will it be? What voice sufficient To celebrate gravely Our joyous Achilles, whose budding glory Grows daily? Who shall speak of his courage, unconquered by strife, Unconquered by fear, And how it equipped with a human soul A magnanimous heart? How it is hungry for honour, for honour alone, Liberal with other good things, Cherishes everyone, even those who fall away From the king’s service? Do not permit, Clio, and Apollo do not permit That Ronsard, defeated By grievous death, should not find a Poet To sing of his worth. Farewell, my dear Ronsard, may the bees always Make their honey on your tomb, May balm from Arabia forever fall there With manna from heaven. May the laurel flourish there, along with ivy And lovers’ myrtle, Rich with a thousand buds, and on all sides may The perfumed rose-bush embrace it, And thyme, basil, the simple daisy, Our lily of France, And that red flower on which is written the plaint Of the unhappy Greek. May the nymphs of Gastine and the holy water-nymphs Who live in the Loir Having just poured out and expressed their tears for you Not cease from grieving. Alas! Clotho has cut the thread of your life With her pitying hand, Seeing it accompanied by old age and gout, Those inhuman tortures, And seeing our poor France, wounded in her body By the bloody struggles Of her children, who have so many times ravaged her, Sighing for death; And Switzerland at war, giving itself over to strife, England enclosed by the seas, And those who drink from the Po, Tagus and Danube Drowning beneath their waters; Just like the vulture, which with its executioner’s claws Endlessly rakes The liver of Prometheus, in new pastures Renewing blow on blow, Inhuman murders take place between brothers, A horrific sight, And now children rush upon their fathers In blind madness; The hearts of city-dwellers are filled with Furies, The country-folk, swept aside, Die in their rows; we see nothing but killings Throughout the deserted countryside. And yet you go on singing of the honour of our France In times so accursed: Do you expect anyone to reward your labours As they did in the past? Wretched poverty accompanies our songs; The Muse, her eyes lowered, Leaves us, seeing that we disdain Her former amusements. So, you are fortunate, and your death fortunate, O Swan of the French, Lament only for us, whose troubled lives Die a thousand times every day. You now wander in the fields of Elysium, In the shade of the orchards Where at all times, secure from cold northerly winds, The tawny orange-trees are laden; Where the meadows are always carpeted in green, The vines with grapes, And the little birds go chattering to the murmur Of crystalline streams. There the cedar sweats its perfumed gum, And the tree of Lebanon Weeps both amber and myrrh, received at its father’s bed, All year long. Running up in a great crowd, around you press The ancient heroes Who drink nectar and feed on ambrosia On the banks of Elysium, Above all great Eumolpe and godlike Orpheus And Linus and Amphion And Musaeus, and he whose burning pen Set fire to Troy; The Theban praise-singer, the poet of Mantua, The Latin lyricist And, with Seneca the great glory of Cordoba, The Florentine love-poet, All of them clapping their hands, leaping with joy, Saying to one another, “There he is, the man who surpassed Italy and Greece In many a poem”. One of them gives you his lyre, another his trumpet, Another tries to give you His myrtle, his ivy, or his prophetic laurel To crown you with them. So, live on happily, godlike soul, While fate keeps us back For the misfortunes of France, close To her final end. |
(In verse 15, I have amended one word slightly, to form a proper sentence – though Garnier may have been deliberately leaving the sentence hanging.) As one would expect, Garnier’s tribute ranges over the areas Ronsard himself wrote about – the King and the civil wars, classical myth, nature, love poetry, Ronsard’s home on the Loir … So there are plenty of relatively obscure references perhaps worth amplifying: – the dedication is to Ronsard’s “successor”, Philippe Desportes – a lesser poet, but one whose fame eclipsed Ronsard’s in the latter portion of his life; – verse 5, the “Stygian river”, the Styx, is the river between the living world and Hades, across which Charon the ferryman or boatman (verse 25) takes all dead souls; – verses 18 & 20, Parnassus (the ‘double mount’, at right – photo credit Rens van der Sluijs) is the traditional home of the Muses. Ovid called it ‘biceps’, that is ‘two-headed’, and between its twin peaks was Delphi, the ‘omphalos’ (navel, centre) of the world; – verse 33, ‘Achilles’ (the great soldier) means of course the King – verse 37, Clio is usually the Muse of history, but sometimes also the Muse of lyre-playing: both seem appropriate here; – verse 40, the ‘unhappy Greek’ is not Narcissus but Hyacinthus, whose flower bears the Greek letters AIAI (‘alas’, ‘woe’); – verse 41, the Gastine & Loir are familiar as part of Ronsard’s beloved estates; – verse 42, Clotho is one of the Fates who determine the length of a man’s life – though note that Clotho is normally the Fate who spins the thread of life, Atropos the one who cuts it … – verse 45, the story of Prometheus eternally having his liver torn out by the eagle (or vulture) by day only for it to re-grow overnight, is well-known; – verse 53, I confess I have no idea what the end of line 3 (“received at its father’s bed”) is referring to … Ideas welcome. Amber and myrrh (like frankincense too) are resinous – and therefore associated with the resin-rich cedars of Lebanon, though myrrh in particular comes form small thorn-trees not huge cedars; – verse 55-56 list many of the greatest poets of the past, legendary and historical. – Eumolpe (or Eumolpos – which means ‘beautiful song’) was founder of the Eleusininan mysteries in ancient Athens; – ‘godlike Orpheus’ is still well-known to us if only for carelessly losing Eurydice after charming Cerberus, the hell-dog, and Hades himself with his song; – Linus, sometimes viewed as Orpheus’s brother, was the inventor of lyric song and/or the harp; – Amphion, one of the founders of Thebes, was taught music by the god Hermes himself – and has a modern poetic form named after him; – Musaeus, lawgiver of Athens, was also was held to have been one of the great poets by Athenians – Socrates in the Apology links his name with three others in this list: “What would not a man give if he might converse with Orpheus and Musaeus and Hesiod and Homer?”; – Homer indeed is the next on the list, he “whose burning pen Set fire to Troy”; – the “Theban praise-singer” is Hesiod, associated with Mt. Helicon in Boeotia. Bringing us from legendary to historical poets, “the poet of Mantua” is Virgil and the “Latin lyricist” is Horace. Seneca, although we think of him as Roman, was indeed born in Spain, in Cordoba; and last in the list and the only ‘modern’, the love-poet from Florence is of course Petrarch.
Amours 1.228
Amours 1.175
In the sestet, the focus moves forward to the Italian renaissance, with Petrarch as the comparator. Though mostly associated with Florence, Petrarch lived for many years in Avignon (seat of the anti-Popes), and the Sorgue flows through Avignon. His ‘laurels’ are both the laurels won by the greatest poets (hence ‘poet laureate’), and a reference to Laura, his lady and ‘muse’. The final tercet point to the length of time between Petrarch and Ronsard – some two centuries – and another hint of a classical theme with the ‘golden age’ descending to a later ‘silver age’ and so forth, the later ages clearly not as great or as worthy as the former. Blanchemain’s version offers variants in the octet: Je ne suis point, Muses, accoustumé Voir vostre bal sous la tarde serée ; Je n’ay point beu dedans l’onde sacrée, Fille du pied du cheval emplumé. De tes beaux rais chastement allumé, Je fu poëte ; et si ma voix recrée, Et si ma lyre aucunement agrée, Ton œil en soit, non Parnasse, estimé I am not at all accustomed, Muses, To watch your dance in the late evening ; I have not drunk from the sacred waters, Springing from the foot of the winged horse. Chastely aroused by your fair eyes, [my love], I became a poet ; and if my voice entertains And my lyre pleases a little, Your eyes, not Parnassus, deserve the praise. Worth noting that in line 7, “agrée” teeters between both ‘to please’ and ‘to harmonise’ – whereas in the revised version at the top of this post there is less room for ambiguity, though perhaps “harmonises with you” is just about implied…
Odes 3.21
A GASPAR D’AUVERGNE Gaspar, qui, loin de Pegase, As les filles de Parnase Conduites en ta maison, Ne sçais-tu que moy, poête, De mon Phoebus je souhéte Quand je fais une oraison ? Les moissons je ne quiers pas Que le faux arrange à bas Sur la Beauce fructueuse ; Ny tous les cornus troupeaux Qui sautent sur les coupeaux De l’Auvergne montueuse ; Ny l’or sans forme qu’ameine La mine pour nostre peine ; Ny celuy qui est formé Portant d’un roy la figure Ou la fiere pourtraiture De quelque empereur armé ; Ny l’ivoire marqueté En l’Orient acheté Pour parade d’une sale ; Ny les cousteux diamans Magnifiques ornemens D’une majesté royale ; Ny tous les champs que le fleuve Du Loir lentement abreuve ; Ny tous les prez emmurez Des plis de Braye argentine ; Ny tous les bois dont Gastine Void ses bras en-verdurez ; Ny le riche accoustrement D’une laine qui dément Sa teinture naturelle Ez chaudrons du Gobelin, S’yvrant d’un rouge venin Pour se disguiser plus belle Que celuy dans une coupe Toute d’or boive à la troupe De son vin de Prepatour, A qui la vigne succede, Et près Vendôme en possede Deux cents arpens en un tour. Que celuy qui aime Mars S’enrolle entre les soldars, Et face sa peau vermeille D’un beau sang pour son devoir, Et que la trompette, au soir, D’un son luy raze l’aureille. Le marchant hardiment vire Par le mer de sa navire La proue et la poupe encor ; Ce n’est moy, bruslé d’envie, A tels despens de ma vie, Rapporter des lingots d’or. Tous ces biens je ne quiers point, Et mon courage n’est poingt De telle gloire excessive. Manger o mon compagnon Ou la figue d’Avignon, Ou la provençale olive, L’artichôt et la salade, L’asperge et le pastenade, Et les pompons tourangeaux, Me sont herbes plus friandes Que les royales viandes Qui se servent à monceaux. Puis qu’il faut si tost mourir, Que me vaudroit d’acquerir Un bien qui ne dure guere, Qu’un heritier qui viendroit Après mon trespas vendroit Et en feroit bonne chere ? Tant seulement je desire Une santé qui n’empire ; Je desire un beau sejour, Une raison saine et bonne Et une lyre qui sonne Tousjours le vin et l’amour. | TO GASPAR OF AUVERGNE Gaspar, who – without Pegasus – Has brought the daughters of Parnassus Into your home, Do you not know what I, a poet, Ask of my Apollo When I make him a prayer ? Crops I don’t request, Those which the scythe cuts down Upon the fruitful Beauce ; Nor do I ask for all the horned troop Which leap upon the scarps Of the mountainous Auvergne ; Nor shapeless gold which the mine Provides for our trouble ; Nor do I ask to be one made To bear a king’s figure Or the proud appearance Of some armed emperor ; Nor inlaid ivory Bought in the East For some dishonest woman’s display ; Nor costly diamonds, Magnificent ornaments Of royal majesty ; Nor all the fields which the river Loir slowly waters ; Nor all the meadows walled in By the bends of the silvery Braye ; Nor all the woods with which Gastine Sees his arms greened ; Nor the rich clothing Of wool which gives the lie to Its natural colour In Gobelin’s cauldrons, Drinking in the red poison To disguise itself, more beautiful Than his wine of Prepatour, Which he himself, in a cup Made all of gold, drinks to his troop – The vines to which he succeded And possesses near Vendome Two hundred acres of them. Let he who loves Mars [war] Enrol among his soldiers, And print his pink skin With bright blood for his work, And let the evening trumpet With its call crash on his ear. Let the merchant boldly steer Over the sea his ship’s Prow and poop too ; It’s not for me, burning with desire At such cost to my life, To bring back golden ingots. All these good things I seek not at all, And my courage is not pricked To such excessive glory. Eating with my friend Figs from Avignon Or olives from Provence, Artichokes and salad, Asparagus and parsnip And melons from Tours, These are tastier foods Than the king’s meat Which is served in mountains. Since we must die so soon, What use to me is gaining Some good thing which hardly lasts, Which my inheritor will come After my death and sell And make a great deal from ? I simply desire Health which doesn’t worsen ; I desire a fine time here, My reason unimpaired, And a lyre which sings Always of wine and love. |
Odes 4:5
Guy, nos meilleurs ans coulent Comme les eaux qui roulent D’un cours sempiternel ; La mort pour sa sequelle Nous ameine avec elle Un exil éternel. Nulle humaine priere Ne repousse en arriere Le bateau de Charon, Quand l’ame nue arrive Vagabonde en la rive De Styx et d’Acheron. Toutes choses mondaines Qui vestent nerfs et veines La mort égale prend, Soient pauvres ou soient princes ; Car sur toutes provinces Sa main large s’estend. La puissance tant forte Du grand Achille est morte, Et Thersite, odieux Aux Grecs, est mort encores ; Et Minos qui est ores Le conseiller des dieux. Jupiter ne demande Que des bœufs pour offrande ; Mais son frere Pluton Nous demande, nous hommes, Qui la victime sommes De son enfer glouton. Celuy dont le Pau baigne Le tombeau nous enseigne N’esperer rien de haut, Et celuy que Pegase (Qui fit soucer Parnase) Culbuta d’un grand saut. Las ! on ne peut cognaistre Le destin qui doit naistre, Et l’homme en vain poursuit Conjecturer la chose Que Dieu sage tient close Sous une obscure nuit. Je pensois que la trope Que guide Calliope, Troupe mon seul confort, Soustiendroit ma querelle, Et qu’indonté par elle Je donterois la mort. Mais une fiévre grosse Creuse déjà ma fosse Pour me banir là bas, Et sa flame cruelle Se paist de ma mouelle, Miserable repas. Que peu s’en faut, ma vie, Que tu ne m’es ravie Close sous le tombeau, Et que mort je ne voye Où Mercure convoye Le debile troupeau ! [Et ce Grec qui les peines Dont les guerres sont pleines Va là bas racontant, Poëte qu’une presse Des épaules espaisse Admire en l’écoutant.] A bon droit Prométhée Pour sa fraude inventée Endure un tourment tel, Qu’un aigle sur la roche Luy ronge d’un bec croche Son poumon immortel. Depuis qu’il eut robée La flame prohibée, Pour les dieux despiter, Les bandes incogneues Des fiévres sont venues Parmi nous habiter. Et la mort despiteuse, Auparavant boiteuse, Fut légère d’aller ; D’ailes mal-ordonnées Aux hommes non données Dedale coupa l’air. L’exécrable Pandore Fut forgée, et encore Astrée s’en-vola, Et la boîte féconde Peupla le pauvre monde De tant de maux qu’il a. Ah ! le meschant courage Des hommes de nostre âge N’endure pas ses faits ; Que Jupiter estuye Sa foudre, qui s’ennuye Venger tant de mesfaits ! | Guy, our best years rush by Like streams flowing In their everlasting race ; Death, as the sequel, Brings us with it Eternal exile. No human prayer Can push back Charon’s boat When the naked soul arrives A wanderer at the river Styx and Acheron. All wordly things Equipped with nerves and veins Death takes equally, Be they poor men or princes ; For over all the empires Its wide hand extends. The strength, though great, Of mighty Achilles is dead ; And Thersites, hated By the Greeks, is dead too ; And Minos too, who was once Advisor to the gods. Jupiter requires only Cattle as an offering ; But his brother Pluto Requires us, us men, Who are the victims Of his greedy hell. He, whose tomb the Pau [Po] Bathes, teaches us To hope for nothing from on high, And he too, whom Pegasus (Who disquieted Parnassus) Knocked down with his great leap. Alas ! we cannot know The fate which must come to us, And man in vain seeks To conjecture what thing Our wise God keeps hidden Beneath dark night. I thought that the troop Whom Calliope leads, The troop which is my sole comfort, Would support my complaint And that, untamed by them, I would tame death. But a great fever Is already digging my grave To banish me down there, And its cruel flame Is feeding on my marrow, A wretched repast. How little is needed, mt life, For you to be taken from me, Shut in beneath my tomb, And for me to see death Where Mercury brings The feeble troop ! [And that Greek who Continually recounts down there The pains with which war is filled, The poet whom a crowd Of wide shoulders Admires as they listen.] Rightly does Prometheus For that trick he contrived Endure such torment, As, on his rock, an eagle With its crooked beak gnaws His immortal guts. Since he stole away The forbidden fire To spite the gods, The unknown bonds Of fevers have come To live among us ; And resentful death, Before that limping slowly, Has become light on his feet. With clumsy wings Not granted to man Daedalus cut through the air. Cursed Pandora Was forged and, still A star, flew off While the fruitful box Peopled this poor world With all the evils it had. Ah, the paltry courage Of the men of our age Cannot endure their deeds ; May Jupiter hold back His thunderbolts, bored with Avenging so many misdeeds ! |
This Ode is dedicated to Guy Pacate, prior of Sougé – a small village in the Loir region. Even today it consists of little more than one street and a church. Pacate had been one of the little group around Daurat in the 1540s, including Ronsard, du Bellay and Denisot, from which sprang the Pléiade. Among them he was apparently known for his learning and his gift for Latin poetry; though beyond their circle he seems obscure. Perhaps it is relevant that, in the posthumous editions of Ronsard the dedication was to Jean Daurat himself, rather than this little-known satellite of his. It’s certainly relevant that Pacate knew his classics: there is an array of classical references here rarely seen in such number in Ronsard’s poems! But at the same time Ronsard contrives an inward-looking reflection on death rather than a grand, public poem, suitable to the relative obscurity of the dedicatee. Stanza 2 refers to the journey to the afterlife: souls would come down to the river Styx where they awaited Charon’s boat to ferry them over to Hades. (Mercury guided souls to the underworld – stanza 10.) Stanza 4 contrasts Achilles with Thersites, the former the hero of the Iliad, the latter an annoying, cowardly tell-tale also on the Greek side; and adds Minos, once a king on earth, but tricked and killed in his bath by his daughters. In stanza 6, Pau is famous as the birthplace of “noste Enric” (‘our Henry’), Henry IV of France; and earlier was the base of Gaston Fébus, whose Renaissance court paralleled that of Italian city-states. But this Pau is in fact the Po in north Italy, reputed to be where Phaethon fell when struck down by Jupiter’s thunderbolt. The second half of the stanza is about Perseus; other editions have “sourcer” rather than the (unique?) “soucer” which I have treated as if it were “soucier”: “Qui fit sourcer Parnase” would mean something like “who made a spring come from Parnassus”, the spring being the Hippocrene spring which was created when Pegasus stamped his foot, and which became sacred to the Muses. The troop of Calliope in stanza 8 is the Muses – Calliope is the muse of epic poetry. In stanza 11, the poet is no doubt Homer; we have met Prometheus (stanzas 12-13), punished by the gods for bringing fire to man, regularly. In stanza 14 I have to admit the presence of Daedalus confuses me: there is no link to Pandora, nor did his flight lead to his own death. I assume that Ronsard is offering a simile – like Daedalus taking wing, death too became swifter. Finally, in the penultimate stanza, Pandora is ‘forged’ because she the first woman, was made by Vulcan on Jupiter’s instructions. The story of the evils contained in Pandora’s box is well-known.
Discours – à Pierre L’Escot
This ought to be, approximately, the 300th poem I’ve posted. So to mark this ‘special occasion’ I thought I’d post a tongue-in-cheek follow-up to Ronsard’s autobiographical Elegy which was my 200th post. This time it’s from book 2 of his “Poems”, and one of many longer poems which Ronsard called ‘discours’ – discourses. Here his father lectures him – in perfect Alexandrines! – about why almost anything is better than being a poet…
It’s addressed to Pierre L’Escot, architect and friend of Ronsard. In Marty-Laveaux’s edition he is identified just as ‘Pierre L’Escot, Lord of Clany’, but in the earlier edition he is given a longer set of titles: ‘Abbot of Cleremont, Lord of Clany, chaplain in ordinary to the King’. Blanchemain further adds: ‘This piece is addressed to Lord L’Escot of Clany, who designed the pavilion of the Louvre. In the 1572 edition, it begins the 2nd book of Poems, which is dedicated as a whole to Pierre L’Escot.’
(I hope this layout works – I’m having trouble getting the ‘stanzas’ lined up 🙂 )Puis que Dieu ne m’a fait pour supporter les armes, Et mourir tout sanglant au milieu des alarmes En imitant les faits de mes premiers ayeux, Si ne veux-je pourtant demeurer ocieux : Ains comme je pourray, je veux laisser memoire Que j’allay sur Parnasse acquerir de la gloire, Afin que mon renom des siecles non veincu, Rechante à mes neveux qu’autrefois j’ay vescu Caressé d’Apollon et des Muses aimées, Que j’ay plus que ma vie en mon âge estimées. Pour elles à trente ans j’avois le chef grison, Maigre, palle. desfait, enclos en la prison D’une melancolique et rheumatique estude, Renfrongné, mal-courtois, sombre, pensif, et rude, A fin qu’en me tuant je peusse recevoir Quelque peu de renom pour un peu de sçavoir. Je fus souventesfois retansé de mon pere Voyant que j’aimois trop les deux filles d Homere, Et les enfans de ceux qui doctement ont sceu Enfanter en papier ce qu’ils avoient conceu : Et me disoit ainsi, Pauvre sot, tu t’amuses A courtizer en vain Apollon et les Muses : Que te sçauroit donner ce beau chantre Apollon, Qu’une lyre, un archet, une corde, un fredon, Qui se respand au vent ainsi qu’une fumée, Ou comme poudre en l’air vainement consumée ? Que te sçauroient donner les Muses qui n’ont rien ? Sinon au-tour du chef je ne sçay quel lien De myrte, de lierre, ou, d’une amorce vaine T’allecher tout un jour au bord d’une fontaine, Ou dedans un vieil antre, à fin d’y reposer Ton cerveau mal-rassis, et béant composer Des vers qui te feront, comme pleins de manie, Appeller un bon fol en toute compagnie ? Laisse ce froid mestier, qui jamais en avant N’a poussé l’artizan, tant fust-il bien sçavant : Mais avec sa fureur qu’il appelle divine, Meurt tousjours accueilly d’une palle famine : Homere que tu tiens si souvent en tes mains, Qu’en ton cerveau mal-sain comme un Dieu tu te peins, N’eut jamais un liard ; sa Troyenne vielle, Et sa Muse qu’on dit qui eut la voix si belle, Ne le sceurent nourrir, et falloit que sa fain D’huis en huis mendiast le miserable pain. Laisse-moy, pauvre sot, ceste science folle : Hante-moy les Palais, caresse-moy Bartolle, Et d’une voix dorée au milieu d’un parquet Aux despens d’un pauvre homme exerce ton caquet, Et fumeux et sueux d’une bouche tonnante Devant un President mets-moy ta langue en vente : On peut par ce moyen aux richesses monter, Et se faire du peuple en tous lieux bonneter. Ou bien embrasse-moy l’argenteuse science Dont le sage Hippocras eut tant d’experience, Grand honneur de son isle : encor que son mestier Soit venu d’Apollon, il s’est fait heritier Des biens et des honneurs, et à la Poësie Sa sœur n’a rien laissé qu’une lyre moisie. Ne sois donq paresseux d’apprendre ce que peut La Nature en nos corps, tout cela qu’elle veut, Tout cela qu’elle fuit : par si gentille adresse En secourant autruv on gaigne la richesse. Ou bien si le desir genereux et hardy, En t’eschauffant le sang, ne rend acoüardy Ton cœur à mespriser les perils de la terre, Pren les armes au poing, et va suivre la guerre, Et d’une belle playe en l’estomac ouvert Meurs dessus un rempart de poudre tout couvert : Par si noble moyen souvent on devient riche, Car envers les soldats un bon Prince n’est chiche. Ainsi en me tansant mon pere me disoit, Ou fust quand le Soleil hors de l’eau conduisoit Ses coursiers gallopans par la penible trette, Ou fust quand vers le soir il plongeoit sa charrette, Fust la nuict, quand la Lune avec ses noirs chevaux Creuse et pleine reprend l’erre de ses travaux. « O qu’il est mal-aisé de forcer la nature ! « Tousjours quelque Genie, ou l’influence dure « D’un Astre nous invite à suivre maugré tous « Le destin qu’en naissant il versa desur nous. Pour menace ou priere, ou courtoise requeste Que mon pere me fist, il ne sceut de ma teste Oster la Poesie, et plus il me tansoit, Plus à faire des vers la fureur me poussoit. Je n’avois pas douze ans qu’au profond des vallées, Dans les hautes forests des hommes recullées, Dans les antres secrets de frayeur tout-couvers, Sans avoir soin de rien je composois des vers : Echo me respondoit, et les simples Dryades, Faunes, Satyres, Pans, Napées, Oreades, Aigipans qui portoient des cornes sur le front, Et qui ballant sautoient comme les chévres font, Et le gentil troupeau des fantastiques Fées Autour de moy dansoient à cottes degrafées. Je fu premierement curieux du Latin : Mais voyant par effect que mon cruel destin Ne m’avoit dextrement pour le Latin fait naistre, Je me fey tout François, aimant certes mieux estre En ma langue ou second, ou le tiers, ou premier, Que d’estre sans honneur à Rome le dernier. Donc suivant ma nature aux Muses inclinée, Sans contraindre ou forcer ma propre destinée, J’enrichy nostre France, et pris en gré d’avoir, En servant mon pays, plus d’honneur que d’avoir. Toy, L’Escot, dont le nom jusques aux Astres vole, As pareil naturel : car estant à l’escole, On ne peut le destin de ton esprit forcer Que tousjours avec l’encre on ne te vist tracer Quelque belle peinture, et ja fait Geomettre, Angles, lignes et poincts sur une carte mettre : Puis estant parvenu au terme de vingt ans, Tes esprits courageux ne furent pas contans Sans doctement conjoindre avecques la Peinture L’art de Mathematique et de l’Architecture, Où tu es tellement avec honneur monté, Que le siecle ancien est par toy surmonté. Car bien que tu sois noble et de mœurs et de race, Bien que dés le berceau l’abondance te face Sans en chercher ailleurs, riche en bien temporel, Si as-tu franchement suivi ton naturel : Et tes premiers Regens n’ont jamais peu distraire Ton cœur de ton instinct pour suivre le contraire. On a beau d’une perche appuyer les grands bras D’un arbre qui se plie, il tend tousjours en bas : La nature ne veut en rien estre forcée, Mais suivre le destin duquel elle est poussée. Jadis le Roy François des Lettres amateur, De ton divin esprit premier admirateur, T’aima par dessus tous : ce ne fut en son âge Peu d’honneur d’estre aimé d’un si grand personnage, Qui soudain cognoissoit le vice et la vertu, Quelque desguisement dont l’homme fust vestu. Henry qui apres luy tint le sceptre de France, Ayant de ta valeur parfaite cognoissance Honora ton sçavoir, si bien que ce grand Roy Ne vouloit escouter un autre homme que toy, Soit disnant et soupant, et te donna la charge De son Louvre enrichi d’edifice plus large, Ouvrage somptueux, à fin d’estre montré Un Roy tres-magnifique en t’ayant rencontré. Il me souvient un jour que ce Prince à la table Parlant de ta vertu comme chose admirable, Disoit que tu avois de toy-mesmes appris, Et que sur tous aussi tu emportois le pris, Comme a fait mon Ronsard, qui à la Poësie Maugré tous ses parens a mis sa fantaisie. Et pour cela tu fis engraver sur le haut Du Louvre, une Déesse, à qui jamais ne faut Le vent à joüe enflée au creux d’une trompete, Et la monstras au Roy, disant qu’elle estoit faite Expres pour figurer la force de mes vers, Qui comme vent portoyent son nom par l’Univers. Or ce bon Prince est mort, et pour faire cognoistre Que nous avons servi tous deux un si grand maistre, Je te donne ces vers pour eternelle foy, Que la seule vertu m’accompagna de toy. | Although God did not make me to take up arms And die all bloodied in the midst of alarms Mimicking the deeds of my earliest ancestors, Yet do I not want to remain useless: However I can I want to leave a memorial That I went up Parnassus to gain glory, That my fame, unconquered by the centuries, Should sing to my descendants that I lived Cherished by Apollo and his beloved Muses, Whom I have honoured more than my life in this age. For them, I was grey-haired at thirty, Thin, pale, defeated, shut up in the prison Of melancholic and arthritic study, Scowling, discourteous, gloomy, pensive and coarse, So that in killing myself I might have gained Some little fame for little understanding. I was many times scolded by my father Who saw I loved too much Homer’s two daughters, And the children of those who learnedly were able To give birth on paper to what they’d conceived; And he would say to me, “You poor fool, you amuse yourself With courting – in vain! – Apollo and the Muses ; What can he give you, that fine singer Apollo, But a lyre, a bow on a string, a murmur Which will be lost in the wind like smoke, Or like ash in the air burned up without gain? What can the Muses give you, who have nothing themselves? Perhaps around your head some thread Of myrtle, or ivy? Or with empty attraction Luring you all day beside a fountain, Or in some ancient cave, so that there you can rest Your un-calm head, and gaping compose Some verses which, as if full of madness, will get you Called a right fool in all company? “Leave this cold career, which has never brought To the fore the artisan, however skilled he is; But rather, in that passion he calls divine, He always dies, welcomed by pale famine. That Homer you have so often in your hands, Whom you paint as some sort of god in your unsound brain, Never had a farthing; his Trojan fiddle, And his Muse whom they say had so fair a voice, Could not feed him, and his hunger had To beg from door to door for the wretched pain. “Leave this foolish study for me, you poor fool; Haunt palaces for me, caress Bartolle for me;, Either carry on your cackle with your golden voice In the middle of the floor [=centre-stage?] at the expense of some poor man, Or smoky and sweaty, with thundering lips, Put your tongue on sale for me before some president; In this way one can arrive at riches And make oneself lionised by people in all places. “Or else embrace for me that silvery learning Of which the wise Hippocras had such experience, The great honour of his island; though his path too Came from Apollo, he became the heir Of goods and honours, while to Poetry His sister left nothing but a mildewed lyre. “Or be not idle in learning what Nature Can do in our bodies, all that she favours, All that she rejects; through noble address In helping others, you can win riches. “Or even, if noble and bold desire Does not, as it warms your blood, make your heart Too afraid to undertake earthly dangers. Take arms in your fist, go follow war, And with a fine wound opened in your stomach Die upon some rampart, covered in dust; By such noble means people often become rich, For to his soldiers a good Prince is not stingy.” Reproaching me thus my father spoke to me, Whether when the Sun leads from the waters His chargers galloping on their arduous course, Or when towards evening he submerges his chariot, Or at night, when the Moon with her dark horses, Both hollow and full, takes up the course of her labours. “Oh how uncomfortable it is to force nature! Always some spirit, or the harsh influence Of some star, invites us to follow, despite everything, The fate which it poured upon us at our birth.” Whatever threat or prayer or courteous request My father made me, he could not drive Poetry from my head, and the more he reproached me, The more the passion to write verse drove me on. I was not yet twelve when, in deep valleys, In the high forests from which men shrink, In hidden caves entirely swathed in dread, Without a care for anything I composed verses; Echo replied to me, and the simple Dryads, Fauns, Satyrs, Pans, Naiads, Oreads, Goat-Pans who bear horns on their brows And who in their dances leap as stags do, And the gentle troop of fantastical Fairies Danced around me, their skirts unfastened. I was at first intrigued by Latin; But seeing by trying that my cruel fate Had not made me naturally skilful in Latin, I made myself entirely French, preferring far to be In my own tongue the second, or third, or first, Than to be the last, and without honour, in Rome. So, following my nature inclined to the Muses, Without constraining or forcing my own fate, I enriched our France, and made the choice to have In serving my country more honour than wealth. You too, L’Escot, whose name flies high as the stars, Have a similar nature: for when you were at school They could not compel your mind’s destiny, So that you could always be seen with ink tracing Some fine painting, or now doing Geometry, Making angles, lines and points upon some sheet; Then when you reached the end of twenty years, Your brave spirits were not content Till learnedly joining together with Painting The arts of Mathematics and Architecture, In which you have risen so high with honour That ancient times are surpassed by you. For though you are noble in manner and family, Although since the cradle abundance has been yours Without seeking it from outside, rich in worldly goods, Yet have you boldly followed your nature; And your first regents never could distract Your heart from your instinct to oppose them. One might as well prop up with a pole the great limbs Of a tree which bends over, it will still tend downwards; Nature does not wish anywhere to be compelled, But to follow the destiny by which she is impelled. Previously King François, a lettered man, The first admirer of your divine spirit, Loved you above all others; there was not in his time Little honour in being loved by so great a personage Who could immediately recognise vice and virtue Whatever disguise a man was dressed in. Henry who after him took up the sceptre of France, Having perfect understanding of your worth, Honoured your learning so well that that great King Wanted to hear no other man than you, Whether at dinner or supper, and gave you the charge Of enriching his Louvre with a larger building, A sumptuous work, that he might be shown to be A most magnificent King in having encountered you. I recall a day when that Prince, speaking At table of your virtue as a thing to be wondered at, Said that you had learned from yourself And that beyond all others too you took the prize, As has done my Ronsard who to Poetry Despite all his family has set his imagination. And therefore you had sculpted at the top Of the Louvre a goddess, never short of breath, Her cheek puffed out at the mouthpiece of a trumpet, And showed it to the King, saying that she had been made Expressly to symbolise the power of my verse, Which like the wind bore his name throughout the world. Now that good Prince is dead, and that it should be known That both of us have served so great a master I give you these verses as an everlasting oath That virtue alone accompanies me from you. |
Pour acquerir du bien en si basse façon,
Et si j’ay fait service autant à ma contrée
Qu’une vile truelle à trois crosses tymbrée ! Now I am neither a hunter [ overtones of ‘venal’, arriviste’] nor a mason To gain riches in so base a fashion, And yet I have done as good service to my country As a vile trowel stamped with three bishoprics! The last line is an allusion to the three abbeys enjoyed by Philibert de Lorme; and note that “timbré” also means ‘crack-brained’…
Variants
Naturally there are also plenty of variants in Blanchemain’s version. These are: ‘stanza’ 1 line 2, “Et pour mourir sanglant …” (‘And to die bleeding …’) line 6, “Que les Muses jadis m’ont acquis de la gloire” (‘I want to leave a memorial / That the Muses once gained me glory’) ‘stanza’ 3 « Laisse ce froid mestier qui ne pousse en avant Celuy qui par sus tous y est le plus sçavant ; Mais avec sa fureur qu’il appelle divine, Tout sot se laisse errer accueilly de famine. Homère, que tu tiens si souvent en tes mains, Que dans ton cerveau creux comme un Dieu tu te peins, N’eut jamais un liard ; si bien que sa vielle, Et sa Muse qu’on dit qui eut la voix si belle, Ne le sceurent nourrir, et falloit que sa faim D’huis en huis mendiast le miserable pain. “Leave this cold career, which does not bring to the fore He who above all others is the most skilled; But rather, in that passion he calls divine, All those fools allow themselves to wander in error, welcomed by famine. That Homer you have so often in your hands, Whom you paint as some sort of god in your empty brain, Never had a farthing; so much so that his fiddle, And his Muse whom they say had so fair a voice, Could not feed him, and his hunger had To beg from door to door for the wretched pain. Later on, the Sun’s chargers are “haletans de la penible trette” (‘panting from their arduous pulling’); and the fairies dance “à cottes agrafées” (‘their skirts pinned up’). As for Ronsard’s Latin, “Mais cognoissant, helas! que mon cruel destin … ” (‘But recognising, alas, that my cruel fate / Had not made me naturally skilful…). When he arrives at the description of L’Escot’s youth, he says: Toy, L’Escot, dont le nom jusques aux astres vole, En as bien fait ainsi ; car estant à l’escole, Jamais on ne te peut ton naturel forcer Que tousjours avec l’encre on ne te vist tracer Quelque belle peinture, et ja fait geomettre, Angles, lignes et poincts sur une carte mettre ; Puis arrivant ton âge au terme de vingt ans, Tes esprits courageux ne furent pas contens … You too, L’Escot, whose name flies high as the stars, Have rightly done the same: for when you were at school They could never compel your nature, So that you could always be seen with ink tracing Some fine painting, or now doing Geometry, Making angles, lines and points upon some sheet; Then when your age arrived at the term of twenty years, Your brave spirits were not content … and later “Toutefois si as-tu suivi ton naturel ” (‘Yet always have you followed your nature’).