Tag Archives: Phoebus Apollo
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 book 2 – Elégie à son livre
Although it’s been months since my last post, I find myself still in book 2 of the Amours! This is really the very last poem from book 2 I’ll be posting, though: the lengthy Elegy which Ronsard prefixed to the book as he sent it out into the world.
Mon fils, si tu sçavois ce qu’on dira de toy, Tu ne voudrois jamais desloger de chez moy, Enclos en mon estude : et ne voudrois te faire Salir ny fueilleter aux mains du populaire. Quand tu seras parti, sans jamais retourner, Estranger loin de moy te faudra sejourner : « Car ainsi que le vent sans retourner s’envole, « Sans espoir de retour s’eschappe la parole. Or tu es ma parole, à qui de nuict et jour J’ay conté les propos que me contoit Amour, Pour les mettre en ces vers qu’en lumiere tu portes, Crochetant maugré moy de ma chambre les portes, Pauvret! qui ne sçais pas que nos citoyens sont Plus subtils par le nez que le Rhinoceront. Donc avant que tenter la mer et le naufrage, Voy du port la tempeste, et demeure au rivage. « Tard est le repentir de tost s’estre embarqué. Tu seras tous les jours des médisans moqué D’yeux, et de hausse-becs, et d’un branler de teste. « Sage est celuy qui croit à qui bien l’amoneste. Tu sçais (mon cher enfant) que je ne te voudrois Tromper, contre nature impudent je faudrois, Et serois un Serpent de farouche nature Si je voulois trahir ma propre geniture : Car tout tel que tu es, n’agueres je te fis, Et je ne t’aime moins qu’un pere aime son fils. Quoy? tu veux donc partir : et tant plus je te cuide Retenir au logis, plus tu hausses la bride. Va donc puis qu’il te plaist, mais je te suppliray De respondre à chacun ce que je te diray, Afin que toy (mon fils) tu gardes en l’absence De moy le pere tien, l’honneur et l’innocence. Si quelque dame honneste et gentille de cœur (Qui aura l’inconstance et le change en horreur) Me vient, en te lisant, d’un gros sourcil reprendre Dequoy je ne devois oublier ma Cassandre, Qui la premiere au cœur le trait d’amour me mist, Et que le bon Petrarque un tel peché ne fist, Qui fut trente et un an amoureux de sa dame, Sans qu’une autre jamais luy peust eschauffer l’ame : Respons-luy je te pri’, que Petrarque sur moy N’avoit authorité pour me donner sa loy, Ny à ceux qui viendroyent apres luy, pour les faire Si long temps amoureux sans leur lien desfaire. Luy-mesme ne fut tel : car à voir son escrit Il estoit esveillé d’un trop gentil esprit Pour estre sot trente ans, abusant sa jeunesse Et sa Muse au giron d’une vieille maistresse : Ou bien il jouyssoit de sa Laurette, ou bien Il estoit un grand fat d’aimer sans avoir rien. Ce que je ne puis croire, aussi n’est-il croyable : Non, il en jouyssoit : puis la fist admirable, « Chaste, divine, saincte : aussi l’amoureux doit « Celebrer la beauté dont plaisir il reçoit : « Car celuy qui la blasme apres la jouissance « N’est homme, mais d’un Tygre il a prins sa naissance. Quand quelque jeune fille est au commencement Cruelle, dure, fiere à son premier amant, Constant il faut attendre : il peut estre qu’une heure Viendra sans y penser, qui la rendra meilleure. Mais quand elle devient voire de jour en jour Plus dure et plus rebelle, et plus rude en amour, On s’en doit esloigner, sans se rompre la teste De vouloir adoucir une si sotte beste. Je suis de tel advis : me blasme de ceci, M’estime qui voudra, je le conseille ainsi. Les femmes bien souvent sont cause que nous sommes Volages et legers, amadoüans les hommes D’un espoir enchanteur, les tenant quelquefois Par une douce ruse, un an, ou deux, ou trois, Dans les liens d’Amour sans aucune allegeance : Ce-pendant un valet en aura joüissance, Ou bien quelque badin emportera ce bien Que le fidele amy à bon droit cuidoit sien. Et si ne laisseront, je parle des rusées Qui ont au train d’amour leurs jeunesses usées, (C’est bien le plus grand mal qu’un homme puisse avoir Que servir une femme accorte à decevoir) D’enjoindre des travaux qui sont insupportables, Des services cruels, des tâches miserables : Car sans avoir esgard à la simple amitié De leurs pauvres servans, cruelles n’ont pitié, Non plus qu’un fier Corsaire en arrogance braves, N’a pitié des captifs aux environs esclaves. Il faut vendre son bien, il faut faire presens De chaisnes, de carquans, de diamans luisans : Il faut donner la Perle, et l’habit magnifique, Il faut entretenir la table et la musique, Il faut prendre querelle, il faut les suporter. Certes j’aimerois mieux dessus le dos porter La hotte, pour curer les estables d’Augée, Que me voir serviteur d’une Dame rusée. « La mer est bien à craindre, aussi est bien le feu, « Et le Ciel quand il est de tonnerres esmeu, « Mais trop plus est à craindre une femme clergesse, « Sçavante en l’art d’amour, quand elle est tromperesse : « Par mille inventions mille maux elle fait, « Et d’autant qu’elle est femme, et d’autant qu’elle sçait. Quiconque fut le Dieu qui la mit en lumiere Il fut premier autheur d’une grande misere. Il falloit par presens consacrez aux autels Acheter nos enfans des grands Dieux immortels, Et non user sa vie avec ce mal aimable, Les femmes, passion de l’homme miserable, Miserable et chetif d’autant qu’il est vassal, Durant le temps qu’il vit, d’un si fier animal. Mais je vous pri’, voyez comment par fines ruses Elles sçavent trouver mille feintes excuses, Apres qu’ell’ ont failly ! voyez Helene apres Qu’Ilion fut bruslé de la flamme des Grecs, Comme elle amadoüa d’une douce blandice Son badin de mary, qui luy remit son vice, Et qui plus que devant de ses yeux fut épris, Qui scintilloient encor les amours de Pâris. Que dirons-nous d’Ulysse ? encores qu’une trope De jeunes poursuyvans aimassent Penelope, Devorans tout son bien, si est-ce qu’il brusloit D’embrasser son espouse, et jamais ne vouloit Devenir immortel avec Circe la belle, Pour ne revoir jamais Penelope, laquelle Pleurant luy rescrivoit de son fascheux sejour, Pendant qu’en son absence elle faisoit l’amour : Si bien que le Dieu Pan de ses jeux print naissance, (D’elle et de ses muguets la commune semence) Envoyant tout expres, pour sa commodité, Le fils chercher le père en Sparte la cité. « Voilà comment la femme avec ses ruses donte « L’homme, de qui l’esprit toute beste surmonte. Quand on peut par hazard heureusement choisir Quelque belle maistresse, et l’avoir à plaisir, Soit de haut ou bas lieu, pourveu qu’elle soit fille Humble, courtoise, honneste, amoureuse et gentille, Sans fard, sans tromperie, et qui sans mauvaitié Garde de tout son cœur une simple amitié, Aimant trop mieux cent fois à la mort estre mise, Que de rompre sa foy quand elle l’a promise : Il la faut honorer tant qu’on sera vivant, Comme un rare joyau qu’on treuve peu souvent. « Celuy certainement merite sur la teste « Le feu le plus ardent d’une horrible tempeste, « Qui trompe une pucelle et mesmement alors « Qu’elle se donne à nous, et de cœur et de cors. N’est-ce pas un grand bien quand on fait un voyage, De rencontrer quelcun qui d’un pareil courage Veut nous acompagner, et comme nous passer Les torrens, les rochers, fascheux à traverser ? Aussi n’est-ce un grand bien de trouver une amie, Qui nous aide à passer cette chetive vie, Qui sans estre fardée ou pleine de rigueur, Traite fidellement de son amy le cueur ? Dy leur, si de fortune une belle Cassandre Vers moy se fust monstrée un peu courtoise et tendre, Et pleine de pitié eust cherché à guarir Le mal dont ses beaux yeux dix ans m’ont fait mourir, Non seulement du corps, mais sans plus d’une œillade Eust voulu soulager mon pauvre cœur malade, Je ne l’eusse laissée, et m’en soit à tesmoin Ce jeune enfant ailé qui des amours a soin. Mais voiant que tousjours elle marchoit plus fiere, Je desliay du tout mon amitié premiere, Pour en aimer une autre en ce païs d’Anjou, Où maintenant Amour me detient sous le jou : Laquelle tout soudain je quitteray, si elle M’est comme fut Cassandre, orgueilleuse et rebelle, Pour en chercher une autre, à fin de voir un jour De pareille amitié recompenser m’amour, Sentant l’affection d’une autre dans moymesme : « Car un homme est bien sot d’aimer si on ne l’aime. Or’ si quelqu’un apres me vient blasmer, dequoy Je ne suis plus si grave en mes vers que j’estoy A mon commencement, quand l’humeur Pindarique Enfloit empoulément ma bouche magnifique : Dy luy que les amours ne se souspirent pas D’un vers hautement grave, ains d’un beau stille bas, Populaire et plaisant, ainsi qu’a fait Tibulle, L’ingenieux Ovide, et le docte Catulle. Le fils de Venus hait ces ostentations : Il suffist qu’on luy chante au vray ses passions Sans enflure ny fard, d’un mignard et doux stile, Coulant d’un petit bruit, comme une eau qui distile. Ceux qui font autrement, ils font un mauvais tour A la simple Venus, et à son fils Amour. S’il advient quelque jour que d’une voix hardie J’anime l’eschafaut par une tragedie Sentencieuse et grave, alors je feray voir Combien peuvent les nerfs de mon petit sçavoir. Et si quelque furie en mes vers je rencontre, Hardi j’opposeray mes Muses alencontre : Et feray resonner d’un haut et grave son (Pour avoir part au bouc) la tragique tançon. Mais ores que d’Amour les passions je pousse, Humble je veux user d’une Muse plus douce. Je ne veux que ce vers d’ornement indigent Entre dans une escole, ou qu’un brave regent Me lise pour parade : il suffist si m’amie Le touche de la main dont elle tient ma vie. Car je suis satisfait, si elle prend à gré Ce labeur que je voüe à ses pieds consacré. | My son, if you knew what they’ll say of you, You’d never want to leave my home, But stay shut away in my study; you wouldn’t want yourself Dirtied or leafed thorough by the crowd’s hands. When you’ve gone, never to return, You’ll have to live like a stranger far from me : “For as the wind flies off without returning, So, without hope of returning, the word escapes.” And you are my word, to whom night and day I have told the ideas which Love told me, So I could put them into these verses which you take into the light, Picking the locks of the doors of my room in defiance of me, Poor thing, who know not that our citizens have Sharper noses than the rhinoceros. So, before trying the sea and shipwreck, See the storm from port, and stay on the shore. “Early to board, late to repent.” Every day you’ll be mocked by ill-wishers, With their eyes, their lifted noses, and a shake of the head. “Wise the man who believes a person who gives good advice.” You know, my dear child, that I have no desire To deceive you: I would have to be shameless, contrary to nature And a serpent with an untamed nature If I sought to betray my own offspring, For just as you are, I recently made you, And I love you no less than a father loves his son. Yet you still wish to go? And the more I wish To keep you at home, the more you pull at the bit. Go on then, since you want to, but I beg you To answer everyone as I will tell you, So that you, my son, protect in my absence Your father’s – my own! – honour and innocence. If some honest lady of noble heart, Who is horrified by inconstancy and change, On reading you reproves me with a heavy frown That I ought not to have forgotten my Cassandre, Who was first to shoot the arrow of love into my heart, And that good old Petrarch committed no such sin, Being thirty-one years in love with his lady Without any other ever being able to set his soul ablaze, Then reply to her, I beg, that Petrarch had No authority over me to subject me to his law, Nor those others who came after him, to make us Love so long a time without breaking our ties. He himself was not like that; for if you look at what he wrote He was a sharp man, with too noble a spirit To be a fool for thirty years, wasting his youth And his Muse in the lap of an old mistress. Either he enjoyed his little Laura, or he was Indeed a great fool to love but not have her at all. I can’t believe that, nor is it believable; No, he enjoyed her, then made her out to be admirable, Chaste, divine, holy: “The lover should also Celebrate the beauty from whom he gains his pleasure; For he who blames her after enjoying her Is no man, but was born of a tiger.” When some young girl is at the beginning Cruel, harsh and proud to her first lover, He must remain constant; it may be that the time Will come, unexpectedly, which will make her better. But when she becomes from day to day Harsher and more contrary, and coarser in love, You should distance yourself, without wearying yourself Trying to soften so foolish a beast. That’s my advice: blame me for it Or praise me who will, I counsel him thus. Women are often the reason we are Light and flighty, coaxing men With bewitching hope, sometimes keeping them With sweet tricks for a year, or two, or three, In love’s bonds without relief; And yet a servant will enjoy them, Or perhaps some wag will run off with the delight Which the faithful lover rightly thought his own. And still they won’t stop, I mean those sly girls Who have spent their youths in Love’s train, (It’s certainly the greatest trouble a man can have To serve a woman used to deception) [They won’t stop] demanding work which is insupportable, Cruel service, wretched tasks; For without regard to the simple love Of their poor servants, they cruelly have no pity, No more than a proud corsair, brave and arrogant, Has pity on the captives in his slave-quarters. [The lover] has to sell his goods, make presents Of chains, purses, and shining diamonds; He must give pearls and magnificent clothes, He must look after the table and the music, He must take up her quarrels, and endure them. Certainly I’d prefer to carry on my back A basket and clean the Augean stables, Than to become the servant of a sly Lady. “The sea really should be feared, the fire as well, And the sky when it is shaken with thunder, But much more to be feared is a learned woman Well-versed in the art of love, when she is a deceiver; By a thousand tricks she makes a thousand evils, And she’s as wise as she is a woman.” Whichever was the god who brought her to life, He was the prime author of great misery. We ought, with presents consecrated at their altars To offer bribes for our children with the great, immortal gods, So they don’t waste their lives with that pleasant evil Woman, the passion of wretched men, Wretched and weak insofar as they’re vassals During their lives of so proud a beast. I beg you, see how by subtle tricks They are able to find a thousand fake excuses After they’ve deceived! Look at Helen after Troy was burned by the Greeks’ fire, How she wheedled with sweet flattery Her fool of a husband, who forgave her vice And fell in love more than before with her eyes Which sparkled still with love for Paris. And what shall we say of Ulysses? While a troop Of young suitors was making love to Penelope, Devouring all his goods, yet still he burned To kiss his wife, and never wished To become immortal with the beautiful Circe So as never again to see Penelope, whom Weeping he wanted to tell about his wearisome journey, While in his absence she was making love: So much so that the god Pan was born from their frolics (The common seed of her and her dandies) As she immediately sent, to make things easier for her, The son to seek his father in the city of Sparta. “That is how woman with her cunning defeats Man, whose spirit overcomes all the animals.” If by chance you might fortunately choose Some fair mistress, and have her for your pleasure, No matter if she’s from a high or low place provided she is A humble, courteous, honest, loving and gentle girl, Without disguise, without trickery, who without wickedness Keeps with all her heart her simple love, Much preferring to be put to death a hundred times Than to break her word when she has promised it; Then you must honour her while you live As a rare jewel most infrequently found. “He certainly deserves the hottest fires Of terrible storms upon his head Who deceives a maid, especially when She gives herself to us heart and body.“ Isn’t it a great delight when we’re travelling To meet someone who with equal bravery Wishes to a company us and like us to journey Over torrents and rocks, tiresome to cross? And isn’t it a great delight to find a girl Who helps us on this life’s wretched journey, Who without being burdened or full of harshness Treats her lover’s heart faithfully? Tell them, then, if perchance the fair Cassandre Had showed herself a little courteous and tender towards me, And full of pity had sought to cure The ills with which her fair eyes had put me to death those ten years; If not with her body but with just a single glance She’d been willing to soothe my poor, ill heart, I’d not have left her, let my witness be That young winged child who watches over love-affairs. But seeing how she always continued more proud I unbound myself from all my first love To love with it another in the country of Anjou, Where Love now keeps me under his yoke. [A love] which I will immediately abandon if she Is to me as Cassandre was, proud and rebellious, To find another, so that one day I may see My love returned with an equal love, Feeling the affection of another within myself: “For a man is a complete fool to love if he isn’t loved.” So, if someone afterwards chooses to blame me that I am no more as grave in my verse as I was At the beginning, when the Pindaric mood Puffed up in swollen words my magniloquent voice; Then tell him that love does not sigh In high-flown grave verse, but in a fine low style, Pleasant and popular, like that of Tibullus, The ingenious Ovid and the learned Catullus. The son of Venus hates ostentation: Enough that we sing his passions to him truly Without bombast or disguise, in a charming sweet style Flowing with a gentle sound like a tinkling spring. Those who do otherwise do a bad turn To simple Venus and her son Love. If it should happen one day that with bold voice I enliven the stage with some tragedy Grave and sententious, then I shall show How loud the strings of my little learning can sound. And if I encounter passion in my verse I shall boldly set my Muses against it, And make a tragic dialogue resound with high-flown And serious tones (assuming the tragic buskin). But while I focus on the passions of Love, In lower style I prefer to employ a sweeter Muse. I do not want these verses, stripped of ornament, To enter some school, or a worthy regent To read me for show; it’s enough if my beloved Touches it with the hand in which she holds my life. For I am satisfied if she approves This work which I dedicate, consecrated, at her feet. |
A few words of commentary on these 200 lines:- the rhinoceros (or, in the earlier version, elephant) has a ‘subtle’ nose, one good for smelling out the good and the bad: ‘sharp’, we could more easily say in English, but while it’s obvious which sort of ‘sharpness’ the elephant’s nose has, it’s perhaps less so for the rhinoceros where a ‘sharp’ nose could refer to its horn not its sensitivity.- Ronsard’s cynicism about Petrarch’s chaste relationship with Laura is perhaps also a corrective to those scholars who think Ronsard’s own affairs were more imagined than real? His harsh words about women, implicitly applied to Cassandra, should not be taken too literally: he speaks elsewhere of still loving her.
– there’s a cluster of classical references in the middle of the poem: the Augean stables, cleaning whose filth was one of Heracles’ ‘impossible’ tasks; Helen of Troy, taken back by Menelaus after Troy’s fall as she was still the most beautiful woman in the world, though her continuing love for Paris is largely a Ronsardian invention (in Homer, she and Menelaus are genuinely reconciled)
– Ronsard invents, too, Penelope’s unfaithfulness to Odysseus with her troop of suitors – in the Odyssey she famously remains loyal; his son Telemachus journeys to Sparta seeking information from Menelaus at the goddess Athene’s prompting, not sent away by Penelope; and Circe did not offer Odysseus immortality but threatened to turn him into a pig like his followers! Ronsard has, ironically because it would be obvious to all his readers, twisted the Greek tale on its head. However, at the same time he demonstrates his wide and deep reading: in a pretty obscure Pindar fragment, but as far as I know nowhere else, Penelope is indeed said to be Pan’s mother (the father, though, Apollo not one or several human suitors!)
– where Ronsard turns to his new love in Anjou, he says “Je desliay du tout mon amitié premiere, / Pour en aimer une autre en ce païs d’Anjou“; that “en” technically means that he is giving Marie his first love, transferring it from Cassandre: this is not a new love, but the old one with a new subject.
– for the really interested, “empoulément” is ampoulément, from the same root as ampoule, a ‘swollen’ bulb of glass.
– Ronsard contrasts the style of Pindar – the great Greek poet of Odes – with that of Tibullus, Ovid and Catullus: Romans, but principally contrasted as love-poets and slightly licentious ones at that. (The ‘son of Venus’ is of course Cupid, god of love.)
See the next post for Blanchemain’s earlier version with its many variants.
Amours 2:60
Ironically, however, the poem was originally addressed to someone else: Jacques Grévin, playwright and poet, and a member of Ronsard’s circle until they fell out. Like so many others, he wrote a book of sonnets (L’Olimpe, addressed to his fiancée, though they subsequently parted), and it was as an introductory sonnet for that volume that the first version (below) of this poem appeared. Grévin is better remembered for his plays, however; his first major success, on Julius Caesar, was imitated from a Latin play by Muret, showing once again how much this circle of poets borrowed and adapted from each other. Younger, a poet, and more showy than Patoillet, the opening comparison with Apollo fits Grévin rather better! So why did his name disappear? Although Belleau simply says that Ronsard was ‘angry’ with him, in fact they fell out over religion, taking different sides in the struggles between the Catholics and Huguenots (Protestants) in the Wars of Religion. The classical reference, to Polyphemus the cyclops and Galatea, is perhaps best known to us these days through Handel’s “Acis and Galatea”. Polyphemus is Aetnean (‘of Etna’) because he and the Cyclopes lived on Sicily, at least according to Callimachus and Virgil, in whose poetry they appear as Vulcan’s assistants under Mt Etna (from where the myth has them throwing the giant rocks lifted by volcanic eruptions). As an aside, it’s worth noting that Theocritus, Callimachus and Propertius all tell the story of Polyphemus and Galatea; it’s not until Ovid that Acis is introduced, and through his version and Handel’s adaptation that has therefore become the variant most well-known today. The early version of the sonnet has a few minor text variants beyond the change of name: A Phebus, mon Grevin, tu es du tout semblable De face et de cheveux et d’art et de sçavoir : A tous deux dans le cœur Amour a fait avoir Pour une belle Dame une playe incurable. Ny herbe ny onguent ne t’est point secourable, Car rien ne peut forcer de Venus le pouvoir : Seulement tu peux bien par tes vers recevoir A ta playe amoureuse un secours profitable. En chantant, mon Grevin, on charme le soucy : Le Cyclope Ætnean se guarissoit ainsi, Chantant sur son flageol sa belle Galatée. La peine descouverte allege nostre cœur: Ainsi moindre devient la plaisante langueur Qui vient de trop aimer quand elle est bien chantée. My Grévin, you are just like Phoebus In face and hair and art and knowledge ; Love has given both of you in your heart An incurable wound for a fair lady. No herb or unguent is any help to you, “For nothing can force Venus’s power”. Only you can obtain through your verse Some gainful aid for your lover’s wound. By singing, my Grévin, we can charm care : The cyclops of Etna cured himself that way Singing with his flute about his fair Galatea. Pain revealed lightens our heart: “And so becomes less the pleasant pining Which comes from loving too much, when it is well-sung.”
Amours 1.223
Note that the two mythical girls in the poem are both failed conquests of Apollo, who received terrible punishments!
In lines 7-8 I have tried to find a parallel for “langueur … languissant” and settled on ‘weak’ words: I’m not sure Ronsard would approve of ‘weak at the knees’ though!
Blanchemain’s version has a variant in lines 11-12:
… comme l’errante DeleS’enracina sous ta voix, et comment Python sentit ta premiere conqueste
… how the wandering Delos Rooted itself at your call, and how Python felt your first conquest
Amours 1.207
Poems 2.2 – to Jehan du Thier
A Jehan du Thier, Seigneur de Beau-regard, Secretaire d’Estat Qui fait honneur aux Rois, il fait honneur à Dieu : Les Princes et les Rois tiennent le plus grand lieu « Apres la Deité ; et qui revere encore « Les serviteurs d’un Roy, le Roy mesme il honore. Il est vray, mon du Thier, qu’un homme comme toy Donne plus de travail à celebrer, qu’un Roy; Car la gloire des Rois en sujet est fertille, Et ne travaille guere une plume gentille, Ny un espoir gaillard, s’il a reçeu tant d’heur Que de ne s’efforcer de chanter leur grandeur. D’un theme si fecond en abondance viennentt Propos desur propos, qui la Muse entretiennent, Comme en hyver les eaux qui s’escoulent d’un mont, Et courans dans le mer file-à-file s’en-vont : Mais pour louer un moindre il faut de l’artifice, A fin que la vertu n’aparoisse estre vice. Si est-ce, mon du Thier, que les plus grands honneurs Qui sont communs en France à nos plus grands Seigneurs, Te sont communs aussi, et si je l’osois dire, De toy seul à bon droit on les devroit escrire Comme propres à toy : mais ces Dieux de la Court Me happent à la gorge, et me font taire court. Comme on voit bien souvent aux mines dessous terre Soyent d’argent soyent de fer de grands pilliers de pierre, Qui sont veus soustenir la mine de leurs bras, Et ahanner beaucoup, et si n’ahannent pas ; Ce sont d’autres pillers qui loin du jour se tiennent Dedans des coings à part, qui tout le faix soustiennent : Ainsi les grands Seigneurs, soit en guerre ou en paix, En credit eslevez, semblent porter le faix Des affaires de France avec l’espaule large, Et toutesfois c’est toy qui en portes la charge. S’il arrive un paquet d’Itale, ou plus avant, Soit de Corse ou de Grece, ou du bout de Levant, Ils le dépliront bien, mais il te faudra mettre En ton estude apres pour respondre à la lettre. Car ainsi que le Ciel ne soustient qu’un Soleil, France n’a qu’un du Thier qui n’a point de pareil, Ou soit pour sagement les Estrangers semondre, Ou soit pour cautement à leurs paquets respondre ; Car soit en stile bas, ou en stile hautain, Les Graces du François s’escoulent de ta main. Nul homme ne se vante estre heureux en la prose, Que pour certain exemple aux yeux ne se propose Tes escrits et ton stile, et pour exerciter Sa main, il ne travaille à te contre-imiter. On dit que Geryon, qui tripla les conquestes De la masse d’Hercule, avoit au chef trois testes : Tu en as plus de mille, aumoins mille cerveaux Que tu empesches tous à mille faits nouveaux. Car soit que le Soleil abandonne la source De son hoste Ocean, et appreste à la course Son char à qui l’Aurore a de sa belle main Attellé les chevaux, et rangez sous le frain : Ou soit qu’en plein midy ses rayons il nous darde, Et à plomb dessous luy toutes choses regarde : Ou soit qu’en devalant plein de soif et d’ahan Il s’aille rebaigner és flots de l’Ocean, Et que son char en garde aux Dieux marins il baille, Ton esprit n’a repos qui sans cesse travaille Et ta langue, et ta main : l’esprit en inventant, La main en escrivant, et la langue en dictant Quelque lettre à tes clercs, ou tout seul tu dechiffres Dedans ta chambre à part les enigmes des chiffres Que te baille un courrier nouvellement venu, A fin que le secret du Roy ne soit cognu. Icy un Alleman des nouvelles t’apporte, Icy un Espagnol se tient devant ta porte ; L’Anglois, l’Italien, et l’Ecossois aussi Font la presse à ton huis et te donnent souci : L’un cecy, l’un cela diversement demande : Puis il te faut signer ce que le Roy commande, Qui selon les effets de divers argumens Te baille en moins d’un jour mille commandemens, De petits, de moyens et de grand importance. Encor’ as-tu le soing des grands tresors de France : Tailles, tributs, empruns, decimes et impos, Ne laissent ton esprit un quart d’heure en repos, Qui se plaist d’achever mille choses contraires, Et plus est vigoureux, tant plus il a d’affaires. Or ainsi qu’un poisson se nourrist en son eau, Et une Salemandre au brasier d’un fourneau, Tu te plais en ta peine, et ta verde vieillesse Se nourrist du travail qui jamais ne te laisse. Quand tu vas au matin aux affaires du Roy, Une tourbe de gens fremist toute apres toy, Qui deçà qui delà tes costez environnent, Et tous divers propos à tes oreilles sonnent : L’un te baille un placet, l’un te va conduisant Pour luy faire donner au Roy quelque present, L’autre (qui a de prés ton oreille approchée) Demande si sa letter a esté despeschée : L’un est fasché d’attendre, et n’a repos aucun Que tousjours ne te suive et te soit importun : L’autre plus gracieux te fait la reverence, Et l’autre te requiert l’avoir en souvenance : Bref la foulle te presse, et demeine un grand bruit Tout à l’entour de toy, comme un torrent qui fuit Bouillonnant par le fond des pierreuses valées, Quand dessous le Printemps les neiges sont coulées. Tu n’as si tost disné, qu’il ne te faille aller Au Conseil, pour ouyr des affaires parler : Puis au coucher du Roy, puis selon ta coustume Presque toute la nuict veiller avec la plume. Et pource nostre Roy d’un favorable accueil Te prise et te cherist, et te porte bon œil, Comme à celuy qui prend en France plus de peine : Si fait Montmorency, et Charles de Lorraine : Non seuls, mais tout le peuple, et ceux qui ont l’esprit De sçavoir discerner combien vaut ton escrit : Et moy par-dessus tous, qui de plus pres admire Ta vertu qui me fait ceste lettre t’escrire. Quand un homme s’esleve aupres de ces grands Dieux, Mesprisant les petits, devient audacieux, Et s’enflant tout le cœur d’arrogance et de gloire, Se mocque de chacun, et si ne veut plus croire Qu’il soit homme sujet à supporter l’assault De Fortune qui doit luy doner un beau sault : Mais certes à la fin une horrible tempeste De la fureur d’un Roy luy saccage la teste : Et plus il se vouloit aux Princes égaler, Et plus avec risée on le fait devaler, Par la tourbe incognuë, à fin qu’il soit exemple D’un orgueil foudroyé, à l’œil qui le contemple. Mais toy, qui as l’esprit net d’envie et d’orgueil, Qui fais aux vertueux un honneste recueil, Qui te sçais moderer en la fortune bonne, Qui es homme de bien, qui n’offenses personne, De jour en jour tu vois augmenter ton bon-heur, Tu vois continuer ta gloire et ton honneur, Loin de l’ambition, de fraude et de feintise : Et c’est l’occasion pour laquelle te prise Le peuple qui tousjours ne cesse d’espier Les vices des Seigneurs, et de les descrier, « Et se plaist en cela ; car de la chose faite « Par les grands, bien ou mal, le peuple est la trompette ; Et toutefois il t’aime, et dit que nostre Roy N’a point de serviteur plus diligent que toy. Tu ne rouilles ton cœur de l’execrable vice De ceste orde furie et harpie Avarice, Qui les tresors du monde attire dans sa main : Car puis qu’il faut mourir ou ce soir ou demain, Que sert d’amonceller tant d’escus en un coffre ? Las ! puis que la Nature ingrate ne nous offre Que l’usufruict du bien, que sert de desirer Tant de possessions, que sert de deschirer Le ventre de la terre, et hautement construire Un Palais orgueilleux de marbre et de porfire ? Où peut estre (ô folie !) il ne logera pas Par la mort prevenu : où apres le trespas Quelque prodigue enfant de cest avare pere, Jeune, fol, desbauché, en fera bonne chere, Vendra, jou’ra, perdra, et despendra le bien Par son pere amassé, qui ne luy couste rien ? « Car tout l’avoir mondain, quelque chose qu’on face « Jamais ferme n’arreste à la troisiesme race : « Ains fuit comme la bale, alors qu’au mois d’Esté « Le grain bien loin du van parmy l’aire est jetté. Mais sur tout, mon du Thier, jaloux je porte envie A ceste liberté nourrice de ta vie, Aux bons mots que tu dis, à ton esprit naïf, Si prompt et si gentil, si gaillard et si vif, Qui doctement adonne aux vers sa fantaisie, Te faisant amoureux de nostre Poësie. Tu n’es pas seulement Poëte tresparfait, Mais si en nostre langue un gentil esprit fait Epigramme ou Sonet, Epistre ou Elegie, Tu luy as tout soudain ta faveur eslargie, Et sans le decevoir tu le mets en honneur Aupres d’un Cardinal, d’un Prince, ou d’un Seigneur, Cela ne peut sortir que d’un noble courage, Et d’un homme bien nay ; j’en ay pour tesmoignage Et Salel, et tous ceux qui par les ans passez Se sont pres du feu Roy par la Muse avancez. Or je ne veux souffrir que les vistes carrieres Des ans, perdent le bien que tu me fis n’agueres : Et si ne veux souffrir qu’un acte grand et beau Que tu fis à deux Grecs, aille sous le tombeau, Deux pauvres estrangers, qui bannis de la Grece, Avoient prins à la Cour de France leur addresse, Incognus, sans appuy, pleins de soin et d’esmoy, Pensans avoir support ou d’un Prince, ou d’un Roy. Mais ce fut au contraire. Ô Princes, quelle honte D’un peuple si sacré (helas !) ne faire conte ! Ils estoyent delaissez presque à mourir de fain, Honteux de mendier le miserable pain, Quand à l’extrémité portant un tresor rare, S’addresserent à toy : c’estoit du vieil Pindare Un livret incognu, et un livre nouveau Du gentil Simonide esveillé du tombeau. Toy lors, comme courtois, benin et debonnaire, Ne fis tant seulement depescher leur affaire, Mais tu recompensas avec beaucoup d’escus Ces livres, qui avoyent tant de siecles veincus, Et qui portoyent au front de la marge pour guide Ce grand nom de Pindare et du grand Simonide, Desquels tu as orné le sumptueux chasteau De Beau-regard, ton œuvre, et l’en as fait plus beau Que si des Asiens les terres despouillées En don t’eussent baillé leurs medailles rouillées. Pourquoy vay-je contant, moy François, les bienfaits Qu’à ces Grecs estrangers, liberal, tu as faits, Et je ne conte pas ceste faveur honneste Que je receu du Roy n’aguere à ta requeste ? Si je la celebrois, le vulgaire menteur, Babillard et causeur m’appelleroit flateur, Et diroit que tousjours ma Muse est favorable Vers ceux qui m’ont receu d’un visage amiable, Comme toy, mon du Thier, à qui certes je suis Deteur de tant de bien que payer ne te puis, Si pour estre payé tu ne prens ceste Muse Que j’envoye chez toy pour faire mon excuse. Tu ne la mettras pas (s’il te plaist) à mespris : La Muse fut jadis vers les Rois en grand pris : Des peuples elle fut autre-fois adorée, Et de toy par sus tous maintenant honorée. Elle avecques Phœbus hardiment ose entrer Dedans ton cabinet, à fin de te montrer Ces vers mal-façonnez qu’humblement je te donne, Et (avecques les vers) le cœur et la personne. | He who pays honour to Kings, pays honour to God. Princes and Kings hold the highest place After the deity; and he who reveres also The servants of a King, honours the King himself. It is true my dear du Thier, that a man like you Is harder to celebrate than a King; For the glory of Kings is a fertile subject, And barely troubles a noble pen Or a lively hope, if it has received such good fortune, To make any effort if it is to sing their greatness. On so fertile a theme, in abundance comes Idea upon idea, which the Muse takes up As in winter the streams which flow from a mountain Rush on, running into the sea endlessly; But to praise a lesser man, you need skill Lest his virtue appear to be vice. So it is, my dear du Thier, that the greatest honours Which are shared in France by our greatest Lords, Are also shared by you, and if I dared say it To you alone ought we rightly ascribe them, As in-born in yourself; but these gods of the Court Clutch at my throat and quickly make me shut up! As you often see in mines under ground, Whether silver or iron mines, great pillars of stone Which you can see hold up the mine with their arms And labour hard, yet do not labour; And there are other pillars which, far from the light, stand Within corners far off, which hold up the whole mass of stone; So great Lords, whether in war or peace, High in worth, seem to carry the mass Of France’s affairs on their wide shoulders, And yet it is you who bears the burden of them. If there arrives a packet from Italy, or further afield, Maybe Corsica or Greece, or the ends of the Levant, They will neatly open it, but you will have to take it To your study afterwards to reply to the letter. For just as the heavens maintain only one Sun, France has only one du Thier who has no equal, Whether for wisely dealing with foreigners Or for cunningly replying to their packets; For both in the low style and the high, The grace of good French flows from your hand. No man boasts of being happy in prose Who does not set before his eyes as a clear example Your writings and your style, and while exercising His handwriting, does not work to imitate you. They say that Geryon, who tripled the conquests Of Hercules with his massive [body], was topped by three heads; You have more than a thousand, or at least a thousand brains All of which you engage in a thousand novel acts. For whether the sun is leaving the origin Of his home the Ocean, and hastening to its course His chariot to which Aurora with her own fair hand Harnessed the horses, drawn up beneath the reins; Or whether at midday he is firing his rays upon us And seeing everything [lying] directly beneath him; Or whether stooping to drink, thirsty and worn out, He is off to bathe again in the waves of the Ocean, And handing his chariot to the care of the sea-gods, Your mind has no rest, working ceaselessly, Like your tongue, and your hand; the mind in inventing, The hand in writing, the tongue in dictating Some letter to your clerks; or you decipher, alone And apart in your room, the riddles of the codes Which some new-come messenger has handed over, That the secrets of the King may not be known. Here a German brings you news, Here a Spaniard stands before your door; English, Italian and Scots also Crowd at your door and give you trouble; One here, one there makes various requests; Then you must sign what the King commands, He who, weighing the effects of various arguments, Hands you in under a day a thousand commandments Of small, middling and great importance. As well, you have charge of the great treasures of France: Duties, tributes, loans, tithes and taxes Do not leave a quarter-hour of rest for your mind Which delights in completing a thousand different things, And the more vigorous it is the more business it has. Indeed. just as a fish is fed by the water it swims in, And a salamander by the heat of a furnace, You are happy in your work, and your youthful old age Is fed on the work which never leaves you. When you go in the morning to the King’s business A mob of people bustle along after you Hemming you in on this side and that And calling into your ears all sorts of plans; One hands you a petition, another tries to get you To let him make some present to the King, Another, approaching close to your ear, Asks if his letter has been hurried forward; One is angry at waiting, and never rests from Always following you and making demands; Another more graciously makes his bow to you, And another begs you to keep him in mind; In brief, the crowd presses on you and makes a great noise All around you, like a torrent rushing Bubbling through the bottom of stony valleys When in Spring the snows have melted. You have barely dined when you must go To the Council, to hear them talk about business; Then to the King’s bed-time, then as is your custom You stay awake almost all night with your pen. And so our King gives you a favourable Greeting and cherishes you, and looks well on you, As on he who makes the greatest efforts in France; So does Montmorency, and Charles of Lorraine; Nor them alone, but all the people, and those who have minds Which can understand how much your writing is worth; And myself above all, who from close by admire Your virtue, which makes me write you this letter. When a man raises himself up to these great gods, Despising the little folk, becoming over-bold, His heart puffed up with arrogance and glory, He scorns everyone yet cannot believe That he is a man, subject to the attacks Of Fortune which may yet give him a nasty surprise; In the end, for sure, a terrible storm Of the King’s anger will ravage his head; And the more he considers himself the equal of princes, The more he’ll be made to swallow the laughter Of the nameless throng, that he might be an example Of pride struck down, to any eye that considers him. But you, who have a mind free of envy and pride, Who make a noble object of contemplation for the virtuous, Who know how to act moderately when fortune is good, Who are a noble man, who attacks no-one, From day to day you find your happiness increased, Your glory and honour prolonged, Far from ambition, fraud and deception; And that’s the reason why the people Prize you, the people who never cease spying out The vices of Lords, and identifying them, And enjoy that: for “Of the things done By the great, good or bad, the people is the clarion”; And still they love you, and say that our King Has no servant more diligent than you. Your heart is not blighted by execrable vice Of that filthy, mad and rapacious Avarice Which draws the treasures of the whole world into its hand; For since one must die, maybe tonight or tomorrow, What’s the use of piling up so much cash in a chest? Ah, since ungrateful Nature offers us only The use while we live of her goods, why desire So many possessions, why tear open The earth’s belly, and loftily build A proud Palace of marble and porphyry, In which perhaps (o folly!) you will not live, Taken first by death, and in which after your death Some spendthrift child of the miserly father – Young, foolish, debauched – will drink well, Will spend, play, lose and fritter away the goods Heaped up by his father, which cost him nothing? For “all worldly goods, whatever you make, Never remains to the third generation; It slips away like chaff, when in summer months The grain is thrown through the air, far from the winnowing basket.” But above all, my dear du Thier, I jealously desire That freedom, the nursemaid of your life, The fine words you speak, your uncomplicated spirit So quick and noble, so jolly and lively, Which learnedly gifts your verse with its imagination Making you like that Poetry of ours. You are not only a most perfect Poet, But if in our tongue a noble spirit writes An epigram or sonnet, epistle or elegy, You immediately extend your favour to him And without deceiving him put him in a position of honour Close to a Cardinal, a Prince or a Lord; That cannot come from anything but a noble courage, And a well-born man; as witness of this I have Salel, and all those who in past years Were close to the late King, advanced by their Muse. I do not want to allow the brief passage Of a few years to forget the good that you’ve done me lately; But also I do not want to allow a great and beautiful act To pass into the grave, which you did for two Greeks, Two poor strangers who, banished from Greece, Brought to the French Court their plea, Unknown and without influence, full of care and concern, Hoping to gain support from a Prince or a King. But they got the opposite. O princes, what shame For a people so blessed, alas, to pay no attention! They were left practically to die of hunger, Shamefully to beg for their wretched bread, When in their extremity bringing a rare treasure They addressed themselves to you: it was an unknown book Of old Pindar, and a new book Of noble Simonides awoken from the tomb. You then, like a courteous, benign and good-natured man, Not only made sure to hasten on their business But also repaid them with plenty of money For those books, which had outlasted so many centuries And which bore on their front edge as guide The great name of Pindar and great Simonides, With which you have adorned the sumptuous house At Beau-Regard, your own work, and with them made it more beautiful Than if the despoiled lands of the Asians Had given you as a gift their blighted decorations. Why am I pleased, me a Frenchman, at the good deeds Which you did for these Greek visitors liberally, And yet don’t value that generous favour Which I received from the King lately at your request? If I celebrated that, the vulgar liar, Gossiper and chatterer would call me a flatterer And say that my Muse is always favourable To those who have received me with friendly face Like you, my dear du Thier, to whom I am certainly A debtor for so many benefits I cannot repay you – Unless to be paid you accept this Muse Whom I am sending you to make my excuses. You will not scorn her, please; That Muse was previously greatly prized by Kings, And by nations she was in past times adored, And is by you above all honoured now. She with Phoebus bravely dares enter Your study, in order to show you These poorly-formed verses which humbly I give you, And, with the verses, my heart and person. |
[ PS my 500th post! ]
Poems 1.20 – the Nightingale
LE ROSSIGNOL chantant et faisant son nid dedans un genèvre Gay Rossignol honneur de la ramée, Qui jour et nuit courtise ton aimée Par mon jardin hoste de sa verdeur, Quarante jours desgoisant ton ardeur Et t’esclatant d’une voix qui gringote Ores en haute ores en basse note, A bec ouvert d’un siffletis trenchant, Hachant coupant entrerompant ton chant De cent fredons, tu donnes à ta femme Un doux martel, amoureux de ma Dame. Tu n’aurois point tant de faveur sinon Que les vieux Grecs t’ont nommé d’un beau nom : Mais bien de deux, t’appellent ce me semble, D’un mesme mot, Chantre et Poëte ensemble. Et je dirois, si j’estois un bragard, Que Rossignol vient du nom de Ronsard. Mais ce n’est moy qui ma Musique vante : Soit bien soit mal, Rossignolet, je chante Ainsi que toy pour me donner plaisir, Quand j’ay Madame argent et le loisir. Quoy ? qui t’esmeut de courtiser sans cesse Et d’enchanter Genévre ma Maistresse ? En ce Genévre où tu chantes de nuit, Dessous l’escorce une pucelle vit, A qui l’amour la peur et l’avanture Ont fait changer de face et de nature. Un jour ce Dieu tout bouquin par le front La poursuivoit d’un pied de chévre pront. Elle courant d’une fuite legere Ainsi pria Diane bocagere : Ou me transforme, ou bien fay moy mourir : La seule mort me pourra secourir Ains que l’ardeur de ce Bouquin je sente. A-peine eut dit, qu’elle fut une plante : Ses doigts longuets, ses bras veneux et beaux, Comme ils estoyent, se changent en rameaux. Son pied devint une morne racine, Et une escorce entourna sa poitrine. Puis ses cheveux de crainte reboursez Espars se sont en fueilles herissez, Et la palleur qu’elle avoit en sa fuite, Vit sur l’escorce et tousjours y habite. Un jour lassé de la chasse des loups, Seul à l’escart je m’endormi dessous L’ombre fatal de ce Genévre, et elle En corps humain m’apparut toute telle Qu’elle fut lors que le Bouc amoureux La poursuivoit par un taillis ombreux, Tant il avoit de flames dedans l’ame Pour la beauté d’une si jeune Dame. Depuis ce jour jamais je n’ay cessé D’avoir le cœur de son amour blessé, Et de languir pour un si beau visage. Et toutefois brave de ton ramage Chantant sifflant et faisant mille tours, Tu veux tout seul jouyr de mes amours, Que de bon cœur, Rossignol, je te laisse : Car tu vaux mieux que ne fait ma Maistresse. Et qui plus est, comme on voit un mary Plein de finesse entre Dames nourri, Faire secret l’amour à sa voisine : Quand il n’a pas une femme trop fine, La persuade avec un beau parler, De la hanter, visiter et d’aller Boire et manger souvent avecques elle, A fin d’avoir (par une ruse telle) Plus de moyen d’œillader les beaux yeux Qui de son cœur se font victorieux. Ainsi rival ta femme tu ameines Dedans cest arbre, où d’un nid fait de laines Mousses, duvets, ses petits elle pond, Esclost, escouve, et qui apres se font Ainsi que toy au retour des fueillages Quarante jours Sereines des bocages. Quoy ? Rossignol, la voix ne te defaut ! Et par despit tu t’efforces plus haut ! Puis qu’autrement ma verve poëtique Ne peut gaigner ton ramage rustique, Va, Rossignol, je laisse seul pour toy L’arbre amoureux qui n’a souci de moy, L’arbre gentil, et toutefois farouche, Qui fait saigner aussi tost qu’on le touche. Tandis, Girard, que la fiévre me tient Reins, teste, flanc, la Muse m’entretient, Et de venir à mon lit n’a point honte. Or des propos que sa bouche me conte Je t’en fais part, à fin qu’à l’advenir De ton Ronsard te puisses souvenir. | The Nightingale singing and making its nest in a juniper-bush Happy nightingale, the branch’s pride, Who court your beloved day and night In my garden, the guest of its greenery, For forty days singing of your passion And crying out with a voice which chirps Now with a high, now with a low note, Your beak open in a piercing whistle, Chopping, cutting off and interrupting your song With a hundred twitterings, you give your wife A sweet jealousy, beloved of my Lady. You’d not have such favour if The ancient Greeks had not given you a fine name ; Indeed with two, it seems to me, thay named you In a single word, Singer and Poet together. And I would say – if I were a braggart – That ‘Rossignol’ [Nightingale] comes from the name ‘Ronsard’. But it’s not myself my poems boast of : For good or bad, nightingale, I sing Like you to give myself pleasure, Since I have my Lady, money and leisure-time. What or who [ moved ] you to court unceasingly And to enchant my mistress, the Juniper ? In that juniper where you sing at night, Beneath the bark there lives a maiden Whose form and nature have been changed By love, fear and mischance. One day that god with horns on his brow Was pursuing her on his swift stag’s-foot. As she ran with light fleeing steps, She prayed thus to Diana, goddess of the woods : « Transform me, or let me die : Death alone can help me Such is this Horned God’s passion I feel. » She had barely spoken when she became a plant : Her fingers long and thin, her arms veined and fair As they were, changed into branches. Her feet became a sad root, And bark encircled her breast. Then her hair, standing up in fear, Was spread out in bristling leaves And the pallor she had in her flight Lived on in the bark, and still remains there. One day, tired from hunting wolves, Alone and apart i fell asleep beneath The fatal shade of this juniper, and she Appeared to me in human form just as She had been when the amorous Horned God Pursued her through a shady copse, Such a fire had he in his soul Because of so young a lady’s beauty. Since that day i have never ceased To bear a wound in my heart for her love, And to pine for so pretty a face. And yet bold in your plumage, Singing, whistling and turning a thousand times, You want to be the only one enjoying that love of mine Which I happily resign to you, nightingale ; For you are worth more than my mistress ! And what is more, as one sees a married man Full of cunning, fostered among the ladies, Making secret love to his neighbour ; if he has a wife who is not too clever, He persuades her with fine words To visit and see her frequently, to go To eat and drink often with her, So that hem ay have (by such a ruse) More means of looking into the fair eyes Which have conquered his heart ; Just so you are bringing your own wife as a rival To this tree, where in a nest made of wool, Moss, feathers she lays her little ones, Hatches, broods them, and after that becomes Like you, when the leaves come back, For forty days the Sirens of the woods. May your voice not fail you, nightingale ! In envious competition, force yourself higher ! As otherwise my poetic inspiration Cannot beat your rustic plumage, Go on, nightingale – I leave for you alone The tree I love which has no care for me, The noble tree yet still timid Which bleeds as soon as it is touched. Yet, Girard, while the fever grips my Guts, head, body, my Muse converses with me And is not ashamed to come to my bed. So, the words which her mouth relates I share with you, that in the future You may remember your Ronsard. |
LE ROSSIGNOL chantant et faisant son nid dedans un genévre de son jardin A Claude Binet Gay Rossignol honneur de la ramée, Qui jour et nuict courtises ton aimée Dans mon jardin desgoisant tes amours Au mois d’avril le père des beaux jours, Et t’esclatant d’une voix qui gringote Ores en haute, ores en basse note, A gorge ouverte, à pleins poulmons trenchant, Hachant coupant entre-rompant ton chant De cent fredons, tu donnes à ta femme Un doux martel. Amoureux de ma Dame, Tu m’es rival, d’où vient cela ? sinon Que les vieux Grecs t’ont nommé d’un beau nom : Mais bien de deux, t’appellant ce me semble, D’un mesme mot, Chantre et Poëte ensemble. Et je dirois, si j’estois un bragard, Que Rossignol vient du nom de Ronsard. Mais ce n’est moy dont ma Muse se vante : Soit bien soit mal, Rossignolet, je chante Ainsi que toy pour me donner plaisir, Quand j’ay maistresse, argent et le loisir. Quoy ? qui t’esmeut de caresser sans cesse De tes fredons Genévre ma Maistresse ? En ce Genévre où tu chantes de nuit, Dessous l’escorce une pucelle vit, A qui l’amour la peur et l’avanture Ont fait changer de face et de nature. Un jour ce Dieu, qui a cornes au front La poursuivoit d’un pied de chévre pront. Elle courant, ayant recours aux larmes, Ainsi pria : « Diane, par tes charmes Ou me transforme, ou bien fay moy mourir : La seule mort me pourra secourir Ains que l’ardeur de ce Bouquin je sente. » A-peine eut dit, qu’elle fut une plante : Ses doigts longuets, ses bras veineux et beaux, A longs fourchons se fendent en rameaux ; Son pied devint une morne racine, Et une escorce entourna sa poitrine. Ses longs cheveux de crainte rebroussez, Espars se sont en fueilles herissez, Et la palleur qu’elle avoit en sa fuite, Vit sur l’escorce et tousjours y habite. Un jour lassé de la chasse des loups, Seul à l’escart je m’endormi dessous L’ombre fatal de ce Genévre, et elle En corps humain m’apparut toute telle Qu’elle fut lors que le Bouc amoureux La poursuivoit par un taillis ombreux, Tant il avoit de flames dedans l’ame Pour la beauté d’une si jeune Dame. Depuis ce jour jamais je n’ay cessé D’avoir le cœur de son amour blessé, Et de languir pour un si beau visage. Et toutefois hautain de ton ramage Chantant sifflant et faisant mille tours, Tu veux tout seul jouyr de mes amours, Que de bon cœur, Rossignol, je te laisse : Car ton fredon merite ma Maistresse. Et qui plus est, comme on voit un mary Plein de finesse entre Dames nourri, Faire secret l’amour à sa voisine : Quand il n’a pas une femme trop fine, La persuade avec un beau parler, De la hanter, visiter et d’aller Boire et manger souvent avecques elle, A fin d’avoir (par une ruse telle) Plus de moyen d’œillader les beaux yeux Qui de son cœur se font victorieux. Ainsi rival ta femme tu ameines Dedans cest arbre, où d’un nid fait de laines Mousses, duvet, ses petits elle pond, Esclost, escouve, et abeche, qui sont Un an après, au retour des fueillages Quarante jours Sereines des bocages. Quoy ? Rossignol, la voix ne te defaut ! Et par despit tu t’efforces plus haut ! Puis qu’autrement ma verve poëtique Ne peut gaigner ton ramage rustique, Va, Rossignol, tu auras seul pour toy L’arbre amoureux qui n’a souci de moy, L’arbre gentil, et toutefois farouche, Qui fait saigner aussi tost qu’on le touche. Tandis, Binet, que la fiévre me tient Reins, teste, flanc, la Muse m’entretient, Et de venir à mon lit n’a point honte. Or des propos que sa bouche me conte Je t’en fais part, à fin qu’à l’advenir De ton Ronsard te puisse souvenir. | The Nightingale singing and making its nest in a juniper-bush in his garden To Claude Binet Happy nightingale, the branch’s pride, Who court your beloved day and night In my garden, singing of your passion In the month of April, father of fine days, And crying out with a voice which chirps Now with a high, now with a low note, Your throat open, whistling fit to burst, Chopping, cutting off and interrupting your song With a hundred twitterings, you give your wife A sweet jealousy. Beloved of my Lady, You are my rival – why is that ? unless because The ancient Greeks gave you a fine name ; Indeed two, naming you, it seems to me, In a single word, Singer and Poet together. And I would say – if I were a braggart – That ‘Rossignol’ [Nightingale] comes from the name ‘Ronsard’. But it’s not myself my Muse boasts of : For good or bad, nightingale, I sing Like you to give myself pleasure, Since I have a mistress, money and leisure-time. What or who inspired you to caress unceasingly With your chirping my mistress, the Juniper ? In that juniper where you sing at night, Beneath the bark there lives a maiden Whose form and nature have been changed By love, fear and mischance. One day that god who has horns on his brow Was pursuing her on his swift stag’s-foot. As she ranhaving recourse to tears, She prayed thus : « Diana, by your charms Transform me, or let me die : Death alone can help me Such is this Horned God’s passion I feel. » She had barely spoken when she became a plant : Her fingers long and thin, her arms veined and fair Split into long-forked branches. Her feet became a sad root, And bark encircled her breast. Her long hair, pulled back in fear, Was spread out in bristling leaves And the pallor she had in her flight Lived on in the bark, and still remains there. One day, tired from hunting wolves, Alone and apart i fell asleep beneath The fatal shade of this juniper, and she Appeared to me in human form just as She had been when the amorous Horned God Pursued her through a shady copse, Such a fire had he in his soul Because of so young a lady’s beauty. Since that day i have never ceased To bear a wound in my heart for her love, And to pine for so pretty a face. And yet proud of your plumage, Singing, whistling and turning a thousand times, You want to be the only one enjoying that love of mine Which I happily resign to you, nightingale ; For your chirping is worthy of my mistress. And what is more, as one sees a married man Full of cunning, fostered among the ladies, Making secret love to his neighbour ; if he has a wife who is not too clever, He persuades her with fine words To visit and see her frequently, to go To eat and drink often with her, So that hem ay have (by such a ruse) More means of looking into the fair eyes Which have conquered his heart ; Just so you are bringing your own wife as a rival To this tree, where in a nest made of wool, Moss, down, she lays her little ones, Hatches, broods and cuddles those who are A year later, when the leaves come back, For forty days the Sirens of the woods. May your voice not fail you, nightingale ! In envious competition, force yourself higher ! As otherwise my poetic inspiration Cannot beat your rustic plumage, Go on, nightingale – you shall have for yourself alone The tree I love which has no care for me, The noble tree yet still timid Which bleeds as soon as it is touched. Yet, Binet, while the fever grips my Guts, head, body, my Muse converses with me And is not ashamed to come to my bed. So, the words which her mouth relates I share with you, that in the future It may remind you of your Ronsard. |
Amours 1.185
Blanchemain’s version is identical.
Chanson (Am. 1:227d)
D’un gosier masche-laurier J’oy crier Dans Lycofron ma Cassandre, Qui prophetize aux Troyens Les moyens Qui les reduiront en cendre. Mais ces pauvres obstinez Destinez Pour ne croire à leur Sibylle, Virent, bien que tard, apres Les feux Grecs Forcener parmy leur ville. Ayant la mort dans le sein, De la main Plomboient leur poitrine nue, Et tordant leurs cheveux gris, De longs cris Pleuroient qu’ils ne l’avoient creuëe. Mais leurs cris n’eurent pouvoir D’esmouvoir Les Grecs si chargez de proye, Qu’ils ne laisserent sinon Que le nom De ce qui fut jadis Troye. Ainsi pour ne croire pas, Quand tu m’as Predit ma peine future : Et que je n’aurois en don, Pour guerdon De t’aimer, que la mort dure : Un grand brasier sans repos, Et mes os, Et mes nerfs, et mon cœur brûle : Et pour t’amour j’ay receu Plus de feu, Que ne fit Troye incredule. | With her laurel-chewing throat I hear calling In Lycophron my Cassandra, Prophesying to the Trojans The way They’ll be reduced to ashes. But those poor obstinate men, Destined Not to believe their Sybil, Saw afterwards, though too late, Greek fire Raging through their town. With death in their hearts, With their hands They sheathed their naked breasts in lead And tearing their grey hairs With long cries They wept that they had not believed her. But their cries had no power To move The Greeks, so laden with loot That they left nothing But the name Of what once was Troy. So, for not believing When you told me Of my future pain, And that I should gain only, As trophy For loving you, the gift of harsh death, A great fire ceaselessly Burns My bones and nerves and heart, And for your love I’ve had More fire Than made Troy astonished. |
I’m uncomfortable with the opening line: Ronsard’s “masche-laurier” is hard to capture I feel (EDIT – see below & Patrice’s useful clarification in the comments). But it would be a pity not to attempt the poem: it’s a marvellous one, I think, with the balance between 4 stanzas of Troy and two of Cassandre (or 2+2+2 if you prefer) and the clear link between the ‘ancient’ Cassandra and the ‘modern’, and the literal burning and the metaphorical. Most of this is a straightforward and familiar recital of the Trojan legend, but Muret helps us with the odd reference to Lycophron: ‘Lycophron, a native of Chalcis, was one of the seven poets who flourished in the time of Ptolemy Philadelphus, king of Egypt, and who were called the Pleiade. This Lycophron wrote a poem called Cassandra, which alone has survived to this day, in which he depicts her predicting the evils which are to come to the town of Troy’. Thus we see Ronsard managing to refer back to the original Pleaid of Alexandrian poets in the Hellenistic period of Greece, which gave its name to the ‘modern’ Pleiade of Ronsard, Baif and the others. No variants to report from Blanchemain’s earlier version (!) ====== More on the opening line: following Patrice’s hint, I have gone and looked up Lycophron. As often with Ronsard, the learned reference isn’t as difficult to locate as you might think: in fact, it’s in the 6th line of the 1500 line poem… The opening, in a Victorian translation I’ve borrowed from www.theoi.com, goes: “All will I tell truly that thou askest from the utter beginning, and if the tale be prolonged, forgive me, master. For not quietly as of old did the maiden loose the varied voice of her oracles, but poured forth a weird confused cry, and uttered wild words from her bay-chewing mouth, imitating the speech of the dark Sphinx.” The Greek word is “Daphne-phagon” – laurel- or bay-eating – at the beginning of line 6 below Further edit: Ronsard also used this concept in Odes 1.11, strophe 5, where he writes of Phoebus (Apollo): Lequel m’encharge de chanter Son Du-Bellay, pour le vanter Sur tous ses enfans qui ont bien Masché du Laurier Delphien. He who charged me to sing Of his Du Bellay, to praise him Above all those of his children who have Well-chewed the Delphic laurel.