Tag Archives: Pegasus

Amours 1: “Vow”

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The second of the two dedicatory sonnets included at the front of book 1. In the last line, Ronsard clearly imagines this poem appearing opposite the picture engraved at the front of the book, showing Cassandre (see top of my Amours 1 page.)

 

Divines Sœurs, qui sur les rives molles
De Castalie, et sur le mont Natal,
Et sur le bord du chevalin crystal
M’avez d’enfance instruit en vos escoles :
 
Si tout ravy des saults de vos caroles,
D’un pied nombreux j’ay guidé vostre bal :
Plus dur qu’en fer, qu’en cuivre et qu’en metal,
Dans vostre Temple engravez ces paroles :
 
RONSARD, AFIN QUE LE SIECLE AVENIR
DE TEMPS EN TEMPS SE PUISSE SOUVENIR
QUE SA JEUNESSE A L’AMOUR FIST HOMAGE :
 
DE LA MAIN DEXTRE APAND A VOSTRE AUTEL
L’HUMBLE PRESENT DE SON LIVRE IMMORTEL,
SON CŒUR DE L’AUTRE AUX PIEDS DE CESTE IMAGE. 
 
 
.                                                                            Divine sisters, who on the soft streams
.                                                                            Of Castalia, and on your native mount
.                                                                            And on the banks of the equine waters
                                                                           Have taught me since childhood in your school ;
 
.                                                                            If, swept away by leaping in your round-dances
                                                                           I have led your dances with many a step ;
.                                                                            [Then], stronger than in iron, in bronze or in metal
.                                                                            Engrave these words within your temple :
 
                                                                           Ronsard, so that future ages
                                                                           May from time to time recall
                                                                           That his youth paid homage to Love,
 
.                                                                            With his right hand places on your altar
.                                                                            The humble gift of his immortal book,
.                                                                            With the other his heart at the feet of this image.
 
 
 
An appeal to the Muses (and their Castalian spring), as so often in the poems in the book. We’ve already noted elsewhere that the spring is also associated with Pegasus, whose (equine) hoof stamping the ground caused it to flow. There’s also a reminiscence of Horace and his odes specifying dedications in temples. Note that, even at the start of his career, Ronsard is already sure his book will be ‘immortal’ – even while it is ‘humble’!
 
Blanchemain’s version is nearer in time to the beginning of the career, of course:
 
 
Divines Sœurs, qui sur les rives molles
Du fleuve Eurote et sur le mont natal
Et sur le bord du chevalin crystal
M’avez nourri maître de vos escoles :
 
Si mille fois en vos douces carolles,
Le guide-danse, ay conduit vostre bal :
Plus dur qu’en fer, qu’en cuivre et qu’en metal,
En vostre Temple engravez ces paroles :
 
Ronsard, afin que le siecle à venir
De père en fils se puisse souvenir
D’une beauté qui sagement affole,
 
De la main dextre append à nostre autel
L’humble discours de son livre immortel,
Son cœur de l’autre aux pieds de ceste idole.
 
 
 
.                                                                            Divine sisters, who on the soft streams
.                                                                            Of river the river Eurotas, and on your native mount
.                                                                            And on the banks of the equine waters
.                                                                            Have brought me up as a master in your lessons ;
 
.                                                                            If a thousand times in your sweet round-dances
.                                                                            I have steered your balls as leader of the dance ;
.                                                                            [Then], stronger than in iron, in bronze or in metal
.                                                                            Engrave these words in your temple :
 
.                                                                            Ronsard, so that the age to come
.                                                                            May recall from father to son
.                                                                            A beauty who wisely made men mad,
 
.                                                                            With his right hand places on our altar
.                                                                            The humble words of his immortal book,
.                                                                            With the other his heart at the feet of this idol.
 
 
 
Here the Muses are located by the river Eurotas – whose spring is in (the real, southern Greek) Arcadia. Note too that Ronsard is not just participating in, but leading, the Muses’ dances!  Devotees of Ronsard’s variants may also enjoy this version which Blanchemain footnotes, again showing the (lesser) variants from the late Marty-Laveaux version:
 
 
Divin troupeau, qui sur les rives molles
De Castalie, et sur le mont Natal,
Et sur le bord du chevalin crystal
Assis, tenez vos plus saintes escoles
 
Si quelquefois, aux sauts de vos carolles,
M’avez receu par un astre fatal :
Plus dur qu’en fer, qu’en cuivre et qu’en metal,
Dans vostre Temple engravez ces paroles :
 
RONSARD, AFIN QUE LE SIECLE AVENIR
MAUGRE LE TEMPS, SE PUISSE SOUVENIR
QUE SA JEUNESSE A L’AMOUR FIST HOMAGE :
 
DE LA MAIN DEXTRE APAND A VOSTRE AUTEL
L’HUMBLE PRESENT DE SON LIVRE IMMORTEL,
SON CŒUR DE L’AUTRE AUX PIEDS DE CESTE IMAGE. 
 
 
.                                                                            Divine company, who on the soft streams
.                                                                            Of Castalia, and on your native mount
.                                                                            And seated on the banks of the equine waters
.                                                                            Hold your most holy lessons
 
.                                                                            If sometimes in the leaps of your round-dances
.                                                                            You have accepted me by some fateful star,
.                                                                            [Then], stronger than in iron, in bronze or in metal
.                                                                            Engrave these words within your temple :
 
                                                                           Ronsard, so that future ages
                                                                           Despite time’s [passing], may recall
                                                                           That his youth paid homage to Love,
 
.                                                                            With his right hand places on your altar
.                                                                            The humble gift of his immortal book,
.                                                                            With the other his heart at the feet of this image.
 
 
 
 **EDIT**  complete Cassndre poems (Amours 1) now available as a pdf here.
 
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Amours 1.175

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Je ne suis point, Muses, accoustumé
De voir vos sauts sous la tarde serée :
Je n’ay point beu dedans l’onde sacrée,
Fille du pied du cheval emplumé.
 
De tes beaux rais vivement allumé,
Je fu Poëte : et si ma voix recrée,
Et si ma lyre en t’enchantant t’agrée,
Ton œil en soit, non Parnasse, estimé.
 
Certes le Ciel te devoit à la France,
Quand le Thuscan, et Sorgue, et sa Florence,
Et son Laurier engrava dans les cieux :
 
Ore trop tard, beauté plus que divine,
Tu vois nostre age, helas ! qui n’est pas digne
Tant seulement de parler de tes yeux.
 
 
 
 
                                                                            I am not at all accustomed, Muses,
                                                                            To watch you leaping in the late evening ;
                                                                            I have not drunk from the sacred waters,
                                                                            Springing from the foot of the winged horse.
 
                                                                            Excited and aroused by your fair eyes, [my love],
                                                                            I became a poet ; and if my voice entertains,
                                                                            And my lyre as it sings to you pleases you,
                                                                            Your eyes, not Parnassus, deserve the praise.
 
                                                                            Surely heaven owed France your presence,
                                                                            Since the Tuscan [Petrarch] had engraved in the heavens
                                                                            The Sorgue, his Florence, and his laurels.
 
                                                                            Yet too late, more-than-divine beauty,
                                                                            You see our age which, alas, is not worthy
                                                                            Even just to speak of your eyes.
 
 
 
Here Ronsard stakes his claim to be firmly in the line of the great poets: though typically he does it while undermining the traditional classical image and placing himself in the petrarchan line of love poets. So (first quatrain) he denies inspiration from the Muses – whose Hippocrene spring on Mount Helicon was created when Pegasus struck the ground with his hoof –  while (second quatrain) deriving it from his lady-love – or, as we might say in English, his ‘muse’… In English the transition from “vous / Muses” to “tu / Cassandre” is not obvious, so I have added a few words at the end of line 5 to make the translation clear. Parnassus, like Helicon, is home to the Muses.
 
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

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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.
 
 
Blanchemain reprints several footnotes from Richelet’s commentary.In the 4th stanza, he notes that “tous les champs” are ‘the fields of his Vendome region’ (as we’d have guessed from the references to the Braye & Gastine); in the following stanza he tells us that Gobelin was  ‘formerly the famous & rich dyer of Paris’, though we now think of his Belgin tapestry factory; and explains that the “rouge venin” (‘red poison’) is scarlet dye in which the wool is soaked for a long time. A stanza later, he epxlains that Prepatour is ‘an excellent wine, whose vine belongs to the king & is in his domain in the Vendome’.
 
The stanzas 3rd & 4th from last also deserve a note or two: Ronsard says “Manger o mon compagnon”, which I guess to be Provençal dialect (“o” for “au”?), suited to the Avignon/Provencal food mentioned in the following lines, and or the Auvergne form which Gaspar hails. “Pastenade” is also Provençal, and there is even today a special variety of melon (“pompon”) grown around Tours: see here.
 
And what of Gaspar himself? Ronsard’s friend Gaspar (or Gaspard) was another of that learned circle of humanists, known among other things for translating Machiavelli into French – particularly ‘Le Prince’ and “Les discours de l’estat de paix et de guerre”, the former apparently undertaken between 1547 and 1553 but not published till the 1560s, one of three roughly contemporary translations of the notorious work.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Odes 4:5

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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.
 
 
 
 
 

Sonnet 15

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Ha, qu’à bon droit les Charites d’Homere
Un faict soudain comparent au penser,
Qui parmi l’air peut de loin devancer
Le Chevalier qui tua la Chimere :
 
Si tost que luy une nef passagere
De mer en mer ne pourroit s’élancer,
Ny par les champs ne le sçauroit lasser,
Du faux et vray la prompte messagere.
 
Le vent Borée ignorant le repos,
Conceut le mien de nature dispos,
Qui dans le Ciel et par la mer encore
 
Et sur les champs animé de vigueur,
Comme un Zethés, s’envole apres mon cueur,
Qu’un Harpye en se jouant devore.
 
 
 
                                                                       Ah, how rightly the Graces of Homer
                                                                       Would compare a sudden deed to thought
                                                                       Which can far outrun through the air
                                                                       That Knight who killed the Chimaera :
 
                                                                       So quick, that a ship in its passage
                                                                       From sea to sea could not forge ahead of it
                                                                       Nor over land could the swift messenger
                                                                       Of truth and falsehood outrun it.
 
                                                                       The North Wind which never rests
                                                                       Conceived my [thoughts], by nature alert,
                                                                       Which in the heavens and by sea too
 
                                                                       And over land, vigorous and active
                                                                       Like Zetes, fly off after my heart
                                                                       Which a Harpy is playfully devouring.
 
 
Another of those complicated classical allusions which struggles to come to life. Homer does indeed compare swift deeds to the speed of thought; the Knight is Bellerophon whose flight on Pegasus to defeat the Chimaera is here recalled; the ‘swift messenger of truth and falsehood’ is Rumour, subject of a famous passge in Virgil’s Aeneid; Zetes is one of the sons of the North Wind; and the Harpies were the winged demons who came and stole all the food from Phineus’s table in the story of Jason and the Argonauts – – as featured in the Ray Harryhausen epic film !