Tag Archives: rose
Amours 1.179
Amours 1.177
Poems 1.18 – The Marigold / Worries
Although the poem is about the marigold, the French word also means ‘cares’ or ‘worries’ – particularly in Ronsard, the troubles of a lover. Here there is a subtext throughout, a message to his lady about the pain she causes him. The title in Blanchemain’s version, ‘the marigold in the garden’, sets the expectation of a rather less ambiguous poem, perhaps.
Le Souci Je veux chanter, Cherouvrier, le Souci Qui te plaist tant et qui me plaist aussi : Non les soucis dont Amour me fait guerre, Mais les Soucis estoiles de la terre : Ains les Soleils des jardins, tant ils sont Jaunes, luisans et dorez sur le front. La rose emporte (empourprant son espine) Le premier lieu à cause d’Erycine, Et du beau sang d’Adon qui la peingnit : L’Oeillet apres qu’Apollon contraingnit Joüer au disque, et qui le fist occire Sans y penser à l’amoureux Zephire, Et fut depuis aux Spartes un grand Dieu. Ces deux, Souci, ont eu le premier lieu, Toy le troisiesme, et s’il n’y a fleurette Ny giroflée, ou double violette, Genest, josmin plus odorant que toy : Au moins, Souci, s’il n’est vray, je le croy. Soit que ma Dame autrefois m’ait donnée Ta couleur jaune, ou que l’ame inclinée A voir, sentir et contempler ta fleur, Sur tous parfums j’estime ton odeur : Jamais repas ne me fut agreable, Si ton bouton n’enfleurit une table, Salade, pain, et toute la maison Aux plus beaux mois de la prime saison : Car de couleur ta couleur je ressemble, Tu es, Souci, mon frere ce me semble. Tu es tout jaune, et tout jaune je suis Pour trop d’amour qu’effacer je ne puis. Printemps, Hyver, tu gardes ta verdure : Printemps, Hyver, le soin d’amour me dure. Double est ta fleur, ta fleur est simple aussi, Mon cœur est simple, et vit tousjours ainsi : Mais mes pensers et mes ennuis sont doubles Selon les yeux et farouches et troubles De ma Maistresse, et mon soin est doublé Si son œil est ou farouche ou troublé. Quand le Soleil ton amoureux s’abaisse Dedans le sein de Tethys son hostesse, Allant revoir le pere de la mer, On voit ton chef se clorre et se fermer Palle, desfait : mais quand sa tresse blonde De longs cheveux s’esparpille sur l’onde Se resveillant, tu t’esveilles joyeux, Et pour le voir tu dessilles tes yeux, Et sa clarté est seule ton envie, Un seul Soleil te donnant mort et vie. Quand je ne voy mon beau Soleil levé, De toutes parts un sommeil agravé Dessus le front des tenebres me donne, Si qu’esblouy je ne cognois personne. Mais aussi tost que ses rais dessus moy Me font un jour, des yeux du cœur je voy Mille beautez, tant sa gentille flame En m’esclairant me reluist dedans l’ame, Et loin du corps dont je suis empesché, Tient mon esprit aux Astres attaché. On dit, Souci, quand au bras on te lie, Que tu guaris de la melancholie. Or en cela nous sommes differens : Ce que je voy, tout triste je le rens Ainsi que moy, tant il sort de tristesse Hors de mes yeux pour ma rude Maistresse, Qui froide et lente et morne en amitié Mon pauvre cœur ne veut prendre à pitié, Me consommant d’amour, tant elle est belle : Et je veux bien me consommer pour elle. Adieu Souci, si Cherouvrier passant Par son jardin voit ton chef florissant, Qui toute fleur au temps d’Hyver surpasse, Que l’Aube engendre et qu’une nuict efface, Te voyant naistre aussi tost que fanir : Soir et matin fay le moy souvenir Que nostre vie aux fleurettes resemble, Qui presque vit et presque meurt ensemble : Et ce-pendant qu’il est en son printemps, Vive amoureux et n’espargne le temps. Si en naissant ce grand Maistre qui donne Heur et malheur à chacune personne, M’avoit donné, mon Cherouvrier, ta vois Dont tu flechis les peuples et les Rois, Comme estant seul de France la merveille Pour attirer une ame par l’oreille : Je chasserois la fiévre de mon corps Par la douceur de tant de beaux accords. En lieu d’avoir ta nombreuse Musique J’ay l’autre ardeur, la vérve poëtique, Qui rompt ma fiévre et charme mon souci, Ou s’il n’est vray, je me console ainsi. Donq si j’avois ceste voix si divine, Present du ciel qui sort de ta poitrine, Je chanterois : mais ne pouvant chanter, De l’autre ardeur il me faut contenter. | The Marigold I shall sing, Cherouvrier, of the marigold Which pleases you so, and pleases me too ; Not the cares with which Love makes war on me But the flowery stars of the earth, Like suns in the garden, so yellow Are they, shining gold on their brows. The rose (em-purpling its thorns) takes First place, because of Erycine [Venus of Mt Eryx] And the fair blood of Adonis which colours it ; The carnation next, which Apollo made Play at the discus and whom Zephyr made him kill Without considering his lover, And was afterward a great god to the Spartans. These two, marigold, have first place, You the third, and indeed there is no flower, Not the wallflower nor double-violet, Broom nor jasmine more sweet-smelling than you ; At least, marigold, that’s what I believe, true or not. Whether my Lady had once given me Your yellow tint, or whether my soul was inclined To look at, smell and consider your flower, Above all perfumes I esteem your odour ; Never was a meal pleasing to me Unless your bud flowered on the table, Salad, bread and all the house In the fairest months of the best season ; Because in my colour your colour I resemble You are, marigold, my brother, it seems. You are all yellow, and I am all yellow From too much love, nor can I wipe it away. In Spring and Winter, you keep your freshness ; In Spring and Winter, love’s cares linger in me. Double is your flower, but single too ; My heart is single, and lives always thus ; But my thoughts and cares are doubled Because of the timid, troubled eyes Of my mistress, and my care is doubled If her eyes are either timid or troubled. When the sun, your lover, sets Within the breast of Tethys his hostess, Going to see again the father of the sea, We see your bloom close, lock itself away Pale and undone ; but when his yellow locks Scatter their long hair over the waves As he awakes again, then you wake joyfully And open your eyes to see him And his brightness is your only desire, The Sun alone bringing you death and life. When I do not see my own Sun arise, From every side a painful sleep Gives me shadows on my brow, So that, dazzled, I recognise no-one. But as soon as her rays shine daylight Upon me, with my heart’s eyes I see A thousand beauties, so much does her noble flame Shining on me lighten again my soul, And, far from the body with which I am weighted down, Keeps my spirit bound to the stars. They say, marigold, that when we tie you to our arm You will cure melancholy. Well, in that we are different : Whatever I see, I make unhappy Like I am myself, so much sadness flows From my eyes for my harsh mistress, Who – cold, slow and sad in loving – Does not want to take pity on my poor heart, Consuming me with love, so beautiful she is ; And I’d willingly consume myself for her. Farewell, marigold : if Cherouvrier passes By your garden and sees your flowering head Which surpasses all flowers in winter-time, Which Dawn brings to birth and a single night extinguishes, Seeing you born as quick as fading ; Night and day remind him for me That our life is like that of the flowers Who virtually live and die at the same moment ; And yet while he is in his springtime Let him live, love, and not spare of his time. If at birth that great Master who gives Fortune and misfortune to each person Had given me, my Cherouvrier, your voice With which you sway peoples and Kings, As if the sole wonder in France Able to draw out the soul through the ears, I would drive away the fever from my body Through the sweetness of so many fine harmonies. Instead of having your many-faceted Music I have that other passion, poetic inspiration, Which breaks my fever and charms away my cares – Or so I console myself, even if it is not true. So, if I had your god-like voice, Which emerges from your breast like a gift from heaven, I would sing : but being unable to sing, With that other passion I must content myself. |
Le Souci du Jardin Au Sieur Cherouvrier Excellent musicien Je veux chanter, Cherouvrier, le Souci Qui te plaist tant, et qui me plaist aussi ; Non les soucys qui tout le cœur nous serre, Mais les Soucis, estoilles d’un parterre, Ains les soleils des jardins, tant ils sont Jaunes, luisans, et dorez sur le front. La rose emporte (empourprant son espine) Le premier lieu à cause d’Erycine, Et du beau sang d’Adon qui la peingnit ; L’œillet après qu’Apollon contraingnit Jouer au disque, et qui le fit occire Sans y penser à l’amoureux Zephyre, Et fut depuis aux Spartes un grand Dieu. Ces deux, Soucy, ont eu le premier lieu, Toy le troisiesme, et s’il n’y a fleurette, Ny giroflée, ou double violette, Genest, josmin plus odorant que toy ; Au moins, Souci, s’il n’est vray, je le croy. Soit que ma dame autresfois m’ait donnée Ta couleur jaune, ou que l’âme inclinée A voir, sentir, et contempler ta fleur, Sur tous parfums j’estime ton odeur ; Jamais repas ne me fut agreable, Si ton bouton n’enfleurit une table, Salade, pain, et toute la maison Aux plus beaux mois de la prime saison ; Car de couleur, Soucy, je te ressemble, Tu es, Soucy, mon frere, ce me semble. Tu es tout jaune, et tout jaune je suis Pour trop d’amour qu’effacer je ne puis. Printemps, hyver, tu gardes ta verdure ; Printemps, hyver, le soin d’amour me dure. Double tu es et simple. Quant à moy J’ay simple cœur et j’ay simple la foy ; Mais mes pensers et mes ennuis sont doubles Selon les yeux et farouches et troubles De ma maistresse, et mon soin est doublé Si son œil est ou farouche ou troublé. Quand le soleil, ton amoureux, s’abaisse Dedans le sein de Tethys son hostesse, Allant revoir le pere de la mer, On voit ton chef se clorre et se fermer Palle, défait ; mais quand sa tresse blonde De longs cheveux s’esparpille sur l’onde Se réveillant, tu t’éveilles joyeux, Et pour le voir tu dessiles tes yeux, Et sa clarté est seule ton envie, Un seul soleil te donnant mort et vie. Quand je ne voy les yeux de mon soleil, De toutes parts un aggravé sommeil Dessus le front des tenebres me donne, Si qu’esblouy je ne cognois personne. Mais aussi tost que ses rais dessus moy Me font un jour, d’yeux et de cœur je voy Mille beautez, tant sa gentille flame En m’éclairant me reluit dans l’ame, Et loin du corps dont je suis empesché, Tient mon esprit aux astres attaché. On dit, Souci, quand au bras on te lie, Que tu guaris de la melancholie. Or en cela nous sommes differens ; Ce que je voy, tout triste je le rens Ainsi que moy, tant il sort de tristesse Hors de mes yeux pour ma rude maistresse, Qui froide et lente, et morne en amitié Mon pauvre cœur ne veut prendre à pitié, Me consommant d’amour, tant elle est belle ; Et je veux bien me consommer pour elle. Adieu, Souci ! si Cherouvrier, passant Par son jardin, voit ton chef florissant, Qui toute fleur au temps d’hyver surpasse, Que l’aube engendre et qu’une nuict efface, Te voyant naistre aussi tost que fanir ; Soir et matin fay-le-moy souvenir Que nostre vie aux fleurettes ressemble, Qui presque vit, et presque meurt ensemble ; Et ce-pendant qu’il est en son printemps, Vive amoureux et n’espargne le temps. Si en naissant ce grand maistre qui donne Heur et mal-heur à chacune personne, M’avoit donné, mon Cherouvrier, ta vois Dont tu flechis les peuples et les Rois, Comme estant seul de France la merveille Pour attirer une âme par l’aureille ; Je chasserois la fiévre de mon corps Par la douceur de mes divers accords. En lieu d’avoir ta nombreuse musique, J’ay l’autre ardeur, la verve poëtique, Qui rompt ma fiévre et charme ma langueur, Me fait gaillard et me tient en vigueur. Doncq’ si j’avois ceste voix si divine, Present du ciel, qui sort de ta poitrine, Je chanterois ; mais ne pouvant chanter, D’escrire en vers il me faut contenter. | The garden Marigold To my lord Cherouvrier An excellent musician I shall sing, Cherouvrier, of the marigold Which pleases you so, and pleases me too ; Not the cares which grip our whole heart But the flowery stars of a lawn, Like suns in the garden, so yellow Are they, shining gold on their brows. The rose (em-purpling its thorns) takes First place, because of Erycine And the fair blood of Adonis which colours it ; The carnation next, which forced Apollo Play at the discus and made him kill Without considering it the amorous Zephyr, And was afterward a great god to the Spartans. These two, marigold, have first place, You the third, and indeed there is no flower, Not the wallflower nor double-violet, Broom nor jasmine more sweet-smelling than you ; At least, marigold, that’s what I believe, true or not. Whether my Lady had once given me Your yellow tint, or whether my soul was inclined To look at, smell and consider your flower, Above all perfumes I esteem your odour ; Never was a meal pleasing to me Unless your bud flowered on the table, Salad, bread and all the house In the fairest months of the best season ; Because my colour resembles yours, marigold, You are, marigold, my brother, it seems. You are all yellow, and I am all yellow From too much love, nor can I wipe it away. In Spring and Winter, you keep your freshness ; In Spring and Winter, love’s cares linger in me. Double you are and single too ; as for me, I have a single heart and my faithfulness is single too ; But my thoughts and cares are doubled Because of the timid, troubled eyes Of my mistress, and my care is doubled If her eyes are either timid or troubled. When the sun, your lover, sets Within the breast of Tethys his hostess, Going to see again the father of the sea, We see your bloom close, lock itself away Pale and undone ; but when his yellow locks Scatter their long hair over the waves As he awakes again, then you wake joyfully And open your eyes to see him And his brightness is your only desire, The Sun alone bringing you death and life. When I do not see the eyes of my own sun, From every side a painful sleep Gives me shadows on my brow, So that, dazzled, I recognise no-one. But as soon as her rays shine daylight Upon me, with my eyes and heart I see A thousand beauties, so much does her noble flame Shining on me lighten again my soul, And, far from the body with which I am weighted down, Keeps my spirit bound to the stars. They say, marigold, that when we tie you to our arm You will cure melancholy. Well, in that we are different : Whatever I see, I make unhappy Like I am myself, so much sadness flows From my eyes for my harsh mistress, Who – cold, slow and sad in loving – Does not want to take pity on my poor heart, Consuming me with love, so beautiful she is ; And I’d willingly consume myself for her. Farewell, marigold : if Cherouvrier passes By your garden and sees your flowering head Which surpasses all flowers in winter-time, Which Dawn brings to birth and a single night extinguishes, Seeing you born as quick as fading ; Night and day remind him for me That our life is like that of the flowers Who virtually live and die at the same moment ; And yet while he is in his springtime Let him live, love, and not spare of his time. If at birth that great Master who gives Fortune and misfortune to each person Had given me, my Cherouvrier, your voice With which you sway peoples and Kings, As if the sole wonder in France Able to draw out the soul through the ears, I would drive away the fever from my body Through the sweetness of my varied harmonies. Instead of having your many-faceted Music I have that other passion, poetic inspiration, Which breaks my fever and charms away my pining, Makes me jolly and keeps me vigorous. So, if I had your god-like voice, Which emerges from your breast like a gift from heaven, I would sing : but being unable to sing, With writing in verse I must content myself. |
Ode retranch. 4
O Pucelle plus tendre Qu’un beau bouton vermeil Que le rosier engendre Au lever du soleil, D’une part verdissant De l’autre rougissant ! Plus fort que le lierre Qui se gripe à l’entour Du chesne aimé, qu’il serre Enlassé de maint tour, Courbant ses bras épars Sus luy de toutes parts, Serrez mon col, maistresse, De vos deux bras pliez ; D’un neud qui tienne et presse Doucement me liez ; Un baiser mutuel Nous soit perpetuel. Ny le temps, ny l’envie D’autre amour desirer Ne pourra point ma vie De vos lèvres tirer ; Ains serrez demourrons, Et baisant nous mourrons. En mesme an et mesme heure, Et en mesme saison, Irons voir la demeure De la palle maison, Et les champs ordonnez Aux amans fortunez. Amour par les fleurettes Du printemps eternel Voirra nos amourettes Sous le bois maternel ; Là nous sçaurons combien Les amans ont de bien. Le long des belles plaines Et parmy les prez vers, Les rives sonnent pleines De maints accords divers ; L’un joue, et l’autre au son Danse d’une chanson. Là le beau ciel décueuvre Tousjours un front benin, Sur les fleurs la couleuvre Ne vomit son venin, Et tousjours les oyseaux Chantent sur les rameaux ; Tousjours les vens y sonnent Je ne sçay quoy de doux, Et les lauriers y donnent Tousjours ombrages moux ; Tousjours les belles fleurs Y gardent leurs couleurs. Parmy le grand espace De ce verger heureux, Nous aurons tous deux place Entre les amoureux, Et comme eux sans soucy Nous aimerons aussi. Nulle amie ancienne Ne se dépitera, Quand de la place sienne Pour nous deux s’ostera, Non celles dont les yeux Prirent le cœur des dieux. | O maid more tender Than a fair crimson bud To which the rosebush gives birth At the rising of the sun, Partly growing fresh and youthful, Partly blushing redder! Stronger than the ivy Which climbs around Its beloved oak, which it hugs Wound in many a twist, Curving its wide-spread arms Above it on all sides, Embrace my neck, mistress, With your two bent arms; In a knot which holds and squeezes Sweetly bind me; May our shared kiss Be everlasting. Neither time, nor the longing To enjoy some other love Can in any way pull my life Back from your lips; So let’s stay embracing And we’ll die kissing. In the same year, the same hour, The same season, We’ll go and see the dwellings Of that pale house, And the fields ordained For happy lovers. Love with the flowers Of eternal springtime Will see our love-dalliance In our maternal woods; There we shall discover how many Good things lovers enjoy. Along the fair plains And among the green meadows, The rivers play their music, full Of many varied harmonies; One plays, and the other Dances to the sound of the song. There the fair sky constantly Shows a mild brow; The grass-snake does not vomit His venom on the flowers; The birds are always Singing in the branches; The winds there are always making Some sweet sound; The laurels there always give Their moist shade; The beautiful flowers there always Retain their colours. Amid the great space Of this happy orchard We shall both take our place Among the lovers, And like them without a care We too shall make love. No ancient lover Will be vexed When from her spot For us two she will remove herself, Not even those whose eyes Captured the hearts of the gods. |
To his mistress (Odes 2:7)
Cassandre ne donne pas Des baisers, mais des appas Qui seuls nourrissent mon ame, Les biens dont les dieux sont fous, Du nectar, du sucre dous, De la cannelle et du bâme, Du thym, du lis, de la rose Parmy ses lévres desclose, Fleurante en totes saisons, Et du miel tel qu’en Hymette La desrobe-fleur avette Remplit ses douces maisons. O dieux ! que j’ay de plaisir Quand je sen mon col saisir De ses bras en mainte sorte ! Sur moy se laissant courber, Peu à peu la voy tomber Dans mon sain à demi-morte ; Puis, mettant la bouche sienne Tout à plat dessus la mienne, Me mord, et je la remors. Je luy darde, elle me darde Sa languette fretillarde ; Puis en ses bras je m’endors. D’un baiser doucement long, Ell’ me suce l’ame adonc, Puis en souflant la repousse, La ressuce encore un coup, La ressouffle tout à coup Avec son haleine douce. Tout ainsi les colombelles, Tremoussant un peu des ailes, Havement se vont baisant, Après que l’oiseuse glace A quitté la froide place Au printemps doux et plaisant. Helas ! mais tempere un peu Les biens dont je suis repeu, Tempere un peu ma liesse ; Tu me ferois immortel. Hé ! je ne veux estre tel Si tu n’es aussi déesse. | Cassandre does not give Kisses, but charms Which alone nourish my soul – The good things for which the gods are mad, Nectar, sweet sugar, Cinnamon and balm, Thyme, lily, rose Blooming on her lips, Flowering in all seasons, And honey like that with which on Hymettus The flower-thieves, the bees, Fills their sweet homes. O gods ! what pleasure I get When I feel my neck seized By her arms so very often! Letting herself curve on me Little by little I see her fall On my breast half-dead. Then, placing her mouth Flat on mine, She bites me, and I bite back, I nibble her and she my Frisky tongue; Then in her arms I fall asleep. With a sweet long kiss She sucks out my soul thus, Then breathing out she pushes it back, Sucks it out once again, Breathes it back all at once With her sweet breath. Just so doves, Fidgeting their wings a little, Careworn, go on kissing After the lazy ice Has left its cold place In sweet and pleasant spring. Oh, moderate a little The good things with which I am fed, Moderate my happiness a little! You will make me immortal – But I don’t want to be Unless you are also a goddess. |
Chanson – Amours 2:67d
Quand ce beau Printemps je voy, J’apperçois Rajeunir la terre et l’onde Et me semble que le jour, Et l’amour, Comme enfans naissent au monde. Le jour qui plus beau se fait, Nous refait Plus belle et verte la terre : Et Amour armé de traits Et d’attraits, En nos cœurs nous fait la guerre. Il respand de toutes parts Feux et dards Et domte sous sa puissance Hommes Bestes et Oiseaux, Et les eaux Luy rendent obeïssance. Vénus avec son enfant Triomphant Au haut de son Coche assise, Laisse ses cygnes voler Parmy l’air Pour aller voir son Anchise. Quelque part que ses beaux yeux Par les cieux Tournent leurs lumieres belles, L’air qui se monstre serein, Est tout plein D’amoureuses estincelles. Puis en descendant à bas Sous ses pas Naissent mille fleurs écloses : Les beaux liz et les œillets Vermeillets Rougissent entre les roses. Je sens en ce mois si beau Le flambeau D’Amour qui m’eschauffe l’ame, Y voyant de tous costez Les beautez Qu’il emprunte de ma Dame. Quand je voy tant de couleurs Et de fleurs Qui esmaillent un rivage, Je pense voir le beau teint Qui est peint Si vermeil en son visage. Quand je voy les grand rameaux Des ormeaux Qui sont lassez de lierre, Je pense estre pris és laz De ses bras, Et que mon col elle serre. Quand j’entens la douce vois Par les bois Du gay Rossignol qui chante, D’elle je pense jouyr Et ouyr Sa douce voix qui m’enchante. Quand je vois en quelque endroit Un Pin droit, Ou quelque arbre qui s’esleve, Je me laisse decevoir, Pensant voir Sa belle taille et sa gréve. Quand je voy dans un jardin, Au matin S’esclorre une fleur nouvelle, J’accompare le bouton Au teton De son beau sein qui pommelle. Quand le Soleil tout riant D’orient Nous monstre sa blonde tresse, Il me semble que je voy Davant moy Lever ma belle maistresse. Quand je sens parmy les prez Diaprez Les fleurs dont la terre est pleine, Lors je fais croire à mes sens Que je sens La douceur de son haleine. Bref je fais comparaison Par raison Du Printemps et de m’amie : Il donne aux fleurs la vigueur, Et mon cœur D’elle prend vigueur et vie. Je voudrois au bruit de l’eau D’un ruisseau Desplier ses tresses blondes, Frizant en autant de nœus Ses cheveux Que je verrois frizer d’ondes. Je voudrois pour la tenir, Devenir Dieu de ces forests desertes, La baisant autant de fois Qu’en un bois Il y a de fueilles vertes. Hà maistresse mon soucy, Vien icy, Vien contempler la verdure : Les fleurs de mon amitié Ont pitié, Et seule tu n’en as cure. Au moins leve un peu tes yeux Gracieux, Et voy ces deux colombelles, Qui font naturellement Doucement L’amour du bec et des ailes : Et nous sous ombre d’honneur, Le bon heur Trahissons par une crainte : Les oiseaux sont plus heureux Amoureux, Qui font l’amour sans contrainte. Toutesfois ne perdons pas Nos esbats Pour ces loix tant rigoureuses : Mais si tu m’en crois vivons, Et suivons Les colombes amoureuses. Pour effacer mon esmoy, Baise moy, Rebaise moy ma Deesse : Ne laissons passer en vain Si soudain Les ans de notre jeunesse. | When I see the fair Springtime I recognise Earth and sea renewing their youth And it seems to me that Day And Love Like children are born into the world. Day which makes itself lovelier, Makes the earth again Lovelier and greener for us, And Love armed with charms And harms Makes war on us in our hearts. He looses in all directions His fiery darts And overcomes with his power Men, beasts and birds, And even the waters Give him obedience. Venus with her Triumphant son Sitting up high on her couch Sets her swans flying Through the air To go and see her Anchises. Wherever her lovely eyes Around the heavens Turn their fair light, The air, remaining calm, Is filled With sparks of love. Then coming down low Under her feet A thousand flowers blooming are born; Fair lilies and bright red Carnations Redden among the roses. In this month so lovely, I feel The flame Of Love warming my soul, Seeing there on all sides The beauties Which it has borrowed from my Lady. When I see so many colours And flowers Studding a riverbank, I imagine I see the fair colour Which paints Her complexion so pink. When I see the great branches Of the elms Which are laced with ivy, I imagine being taken into the lakes Of her arms And her supporting my neck. When I hear the soft voice Of the happy nightingale Singing in the woods, I imagine enjoying her And hearing Her soft voice which enchants me. When I see in some place A tall pine Or some other tree growing tall I allow myself to be deceived And imagine I see Her lovely shape and size. When I see in a garden In the morning A new flower opening, I compare its bud With the nipple Of her fair breast, swelling. When the sun, smiling In the east, Shows us his golden tresses, I imagine I see Before me My fair mistress arising. When I spy the meadows Dotted With the flowers which fill the earth, Ah then I make my senses believe That I feel The softness of her breath. In short, I make the comparison, With good reason Of Springtime with my beloved; One gives the flowers their new strength, And my heart Takes from the other its strength and life. I’d like, to the sound of the water Of some stream To untie her blonde tresses Curling her hair into So many knots That I’d see waves curling. I’d like, so I could hold her, To become God of these empty forests, Kissing her as many times As there are Green leaves in a wood. Ah, my mistress, my desire, Come here Come and consider the greensward; The flowers take pity On my love And only you care not. At least lift your gracious eyes A little And see these two doves Who quite naturally And sweetly Make love with beak and wings. And we, beneath the shade of honour Betray Our happiness through fear: The birds are luckier Lovers Who make love without constraint. Still, let us not give up Our frolics For these too restrictive laws; But if you trust me, let’s live Let’s copy The amorous doves. To sweep away my anguish Kiss me Kiss me again, my goddess! Don’t let them go by empty And quickly, These years of our youth! |
Odes 5.11
Sur toute fleurette déclose J’aime la senteur de la rose Et l’odeur de la belle fleur Qui de la premiere couleur Pare la terre, quand la glace Et l’hyver au soleil font place Les autres boutons vermeillets, La giroflée et les œillets, Et le bel esmail qui varie L’honneur gemmé d’une prairie En mille lustres s’esclatant ; Ensemble ne me plaisent tant Que fait la rose pourperette, Et de Mars la blanche fleurette, Que puis-je, pour le passetemps Que vous me donnez le printemps Prier pour vous deux autre chose, Sinon que toy, pourprine rose, Puisses toujours avoir le sein En mai de rosée tout plein, Et que jamais le chaut qui dure En juin ne te fasse laidure ? Ny à toy, fleurette de mars, Jamais l’hyver, lorsque tu pars Hors de la terre, ne te face Pancher morte dessus la place ; Ains toujours, maugré la froideur Puisses-tu de ta soefve odeur Nous annoncer que l’an se vire Plus doux vers nous, et que Zephyre Après le tour du fascheux temps Nous ramene le beau printemps. | Above all the flowers that bloom I love the scent of the rose, And the perfume of the fair flower Which with its initial colour Adorns the earth when ice And winter take the sun’s place. The other crimson buds, The wallflower, the carnation, The beautiful carpet which variously spreads The bejewelled glory of a meadow With a thousand glowing colours bursting out, Together do not please me as much As does the purple rose And the white flower of Mars. How can I, for the pleasant times Which you give me in spring, Beg anything else for the two of you Unless that you, crimsoned rose, Might always be able to keep your breast All filled with pink in May ; And may the heat which lasts so long In June never make you ugly. And for you, flower of Mars, In winter as you emerge From the earth may it never make you Wilt dead upon the ground; So may you always, despite the cold, Be able with your pleasing odour To announce to us that the year is veering More gently towards us, and that Zephyr [West wind] After the turn of the dreary weather Is bringing us back the fine springtime. |
Du teint de honte accompagné Sois toujours en may rebaigné De la rosée qui doux glisse, Et jamais juin ne te fanisse ?
Accompanied by the tint of shame Might always be re-bathed in May With the rosy pink which softly slips away, And that June might never fade you.
De la defloration de Lede (Odes 3:20)
Time for one of Ronsard’s longer poems, I think! This is one of his mythological extravaganzas, and its topic is the ‘Defloration of Leda’ – it is dedicated to Cassandre(!)
Ronsard divides it into 3 ‘pauses’ or parts; and there are two alternative openings (the later 1587 one printed by Blanchemain in a footnote). For simplicity I’ve shown the two at the beginning of the poem. I’ve also added a number of ‘footnotes’, indicated in the text to make it easier to locate them.
Premier pause Le cruel Amour, vainqueur De ma vie, sa sujette, M’a si bien écrit au cœur Votre nom de sa sagette, Que le temps, qui peut casser Le fer et la pierre dure, Ne le sauroit effacer Qu’en moi vivant il ne dure. [alternative opening (1587) : Amour, dont le traict vainqueur Fait en mon sang sa retraite, M’a si bien escrit au cœur Le nom de ma Cassandrette, Que le tombeau mange-chair, Logis de la pourriture, Ne pourra point arracher De mon cœur sa pourtraiture.] Mon luth, qui des bois oyans Souloit alléger les peines, Las ! de mes yeux larmoyans Ne tarit point les fontaines ; Et le soleil ne peut voir, Soit quand le jour il apporte, Ou quand il se couche au soir, Une autre douleur plus forte. Mais vostre cœur obstiné, Et moins pitoyable encore Que l’Ocean mutine Qui baigne la rive more, Ne prend mon service à gré, Ains d’immoler envie Le mien, à luy consacré Des premiers ans de ma vie. Jupiter, espoinçonné De telle amoureuse rage, A jadis abandonné Et son trône et son orage ; Car l’œil qui son cœur estraint, Comme estraints ores nous sommes Ce grand seigneur a contraint De tenter l’amour des hommes. Impatient du desir Naissant de sa flame esprise, Se laissa d’amour saisir, Comme une despouille prise. Puis il a, bras, teste et flanc, Et sa poitrine cachée Sous un plumage plus blanc Que le laict sur la jonchée. Et son col mit un carcan Avec une chaîne où l’œuvre Du laborieux Vulcan Admirable se descœuvre. D’or en estoient les cerceaux, Piolez d’émail ensemble. A l’arc qui note les eaux Ce bel ouvrage ressemble. L’or sur la plume reluit D’une semblable lumiere Que le clair œil de la nuit Dessus la neige premiere. Il fend le chemin des cieux Par un voguer de ses ailes, Et d’un branle spatieux Tire ses rames nouvelles. Comme l’aigle fond d’en haut, Ouvrant l’espais de la nue, Sur l’aspic qui leche au chaud Sa jeunesse revenue, Ainsi le cygne voloit Contre-bas, tant qu’il arrive Dessus l’estang où souloit Jouer Lede sur la rive. Quand le ciel eut allumé Le beau jour par les campagnes, Elle au bord accoustumé Mena jouer ses compagnes ; Et, studieuse des fleurs En sa main un pannier porte Peint de diverse couleurs Et peint de diverse sorte. Seconde pause D’un bout du pannier s’ouvroit, Entre cent nues dorées, Une aurore qui couvroit Le ciel de fleurs colorées ; Ses cheveux vagoient errans, Souflez du vent des narines Des prochains chevaux tirans Le soleil des eaux marines. Comme au ciel il fait son tour Par sa voye courbe et torte, Il tourne tout a l’entour De l’anse en semblable sorte. Les nerfs s’enflent aux chevaux Et leur puissance indontée Se lasse sous les travaux De la penible montée. La mer est peinte plus bas, L’eau ride si bien sur elle, Qu’un pescheur ne nieroit pas Qu’elle ne fust naturelle. Ce soleil tombant au soir Dedans l’onde voisine entre A chef bas se laissant cheoir Jusqu’au fond de ce grand ventre. Sur le sourci d’un rocher Un pasteur le loup regarde, Qui se haste d’approcher, Du couard peuple qu’il garde ; Mais de cela ne luy chaut, Tant un limas luy agrée, Qui lentement monte au haut D’un lis au bas de la prée. Un satyre tout follet, Larron, en folastrant tire La panetiere et le laict D’un autre follet satyre. L’un court après tout ireux, L’autre defend sa despouille, Le laict se verse sur eux, Qui sein et menton leur souille. Deux beliers qui se heurtoient Le haut de leurs testes dures Pourtraits aux deux bords estoient Pour la fin de ses peintures. Tel pannier en ses mains mist Lede, qui sa troupe excelle, Le jour qu’un oiseau la fist Femme en lieu d’une pucelle. L’une arrache d’un doigt blanc Du beau Narcisse les larmes, Et la lettre teinte au sang Du Grec marry pour les armes. De crainte l’œillet vermeil Pallist entre ces pillardes, Et la fleur que toy, Soleil, Des cieux encor tu regardes. A l’envi sont jà cueillis Les verds tresors de la plaine, Les bassinets et les lis, La rose et la marjolaine, Quand la vierge dit ainsi, De son destin ignorante : « De tant de fleurs que voicy Laissons la proye odorante. « Allons, troupeau bien-heureux, Que j’aime d’amour naïve, Ouyr l’oiseau douloureux Qui se plaint sur nostre rive. » Et elle, en hastant le pas, Fuit par l’herbe d’un pied vite ; Sa troupe ne la suit pas, Tant sa carriere est subite ; Du bord luy tendit la main, Et l’oiseau, qui tressaut d’aise, S’en approche tout humain, Et le blanc yvoire baise. Ores l’adultere oiseau, Au bord par les fleurs se joue, Et ores au haut de l’eau Tout mignard près d’elle noue. Puis, d’une gaye façon, Courbe au dos l’une et l’autre aile, Et au bruit de sa chanson Il apprivoise la belle. La nicette en son giron Reçoit les flammes secrettes, Faisant tout à l’environ Du cygne un lict de fleurettes. Luy, qui fut si gracieux, Voyant son heure opportune, Devint plus audacieux, Prenant au poil la fortune. De son col comme ondes long Le sein de la vierge touche, Et son bec luy mit adonc Dedans sa vermeille bouche. Il va ses ergots dressant Sur les bras d’elle qu’il serre, Et de son ventre pressant Contraint la rebelle à terre. Sous l’oiseau se debat fort, Le pince et le mord, si est-ce Qu’au milieu de tel effort Ell’ sent ravir sa jeunesse. Le cinabre çà et là Couloura la vergongneuse. A la fin elle parla D’une bouche desdaigneuse : « D’où es-tu, trompeur volant ? D’où viens-tu, qui as l’audace D’aller ainsi violant Les filles de noble race ? « Je cuidois ton cœur, helas ! Semblable à l’habit qu’il porte, Mais (hè pauvrette ! ) tu l’as, A mon dam, d’une autre sorte. O ciel ! qui mes cris entens, Morte puissé-je estre enclose Là bas, puis que mon printemps Est despouillé de sa rose ! « Plustost vien pour me manger, O veufve tigre affamèe, Que d’un oiseau estranger Je sois la femme nommée. » Ses membres tombent peu forts, Et dedans la mort voisine Ses yeux jà nouoient, alors Que luy respondit le cygne : Troisiesme pause « Vierge, dit-il, je ne suis Ce qu’à me voir il te semble ; Plus grande chose je puis Qu’un cygne à qui je ressemble : Je suis le maistre des cieux, Je suis celuy qui desserre Le tonnerre audacieux Sur les durs flancs de la terre. « La contraignante douleur Du tien, plus chaud, qui m’allume, M’a fait prendre la couleur De ceste non mienne plume. Ne te va donc obstinant Contre l’heur de ta fortune : Tu seras incontinant La belle-sœur de Neptune, « Et si tu pondras deux œufs De ma semence feconde, Ainçois deux triomphes neufs, Futurs ornemens du monde. L’un deux jumeaux esclorra : Pollux, vaillant à l’escrime, Et son frere, qu’on loûra Pour des chevaliers le prime ; « Dedans l’autre germera La beauté, au ciel choisie, Pour qui un jour s’armera L’Europe contre l’Asie. » A ces mots, elle consent, Recevant telle avanture, Et jà de peu à peu sent Haute eslever sa ceinture. | Cruel Love, conqueror Of my life, his subject, Has written so well in my heart Your name with his arrow That time, which can break Iron and hard stone, Could not wipe it away Such that it will not last in me while alive. Love, whose conquering dart Has made its home in my blood, Has so well written in my heart The name of my little Cassandre That the flesh-eating tomb, Where decay lives, Could not take any part From my heart of her portrait. My lute, which is accustomed To lessening the woes of the listening woods, Alas, dries not the fountains Of my weeping eyes; And the sun cannot see, Either when he brings the day Or when he goes to bed at night, Any other grief more strong. But your stubborn heart, Less pitiful still Than the unruly ocean Which bathes the Moorish coast, Does not like my service, But wants to sacrifice My own, consecrated to it From the earliest years of my life. Jupiter, excited By a similar passionate love, Once abandoned His throne and his storm; For his eye, which compelled his heart As sometimes our hearts are compelled, Compelled this great lord To try a human love. Impatient with the desire Growing from his love-struck flame, He gave himself over to love Like the captured spoils of war. Then his arms, head and flanks And his breast he head Beneath a plumage whiter Than milk on scattered rushes. And his neck wore a collar With a chain, on which the work Of hard-working Vulcan Could be seen and admired. The hoops were of gold Together with enamel of many colours. The bow which the waters draw This lovely piece of work resembled. Gold shone out on his feathers With a light like The bright eye of the night On a first snow. He cleaved his path through the heavens With the sail of his wings, And with a measured beat He pulled his new oarage. As the eagle swoops from on high, Making an opening in the thick clouds, Upon the asp which, in the heat, licks Its recovered youthfulness;1 So the swan flew Down here to arrive Upon the pool where Leda Was accustomed to play on the bank. When fair day had lit The sky over the fields, She led her companions to play On the usual bank And fascinated by flowers She bore in her hand a basket Painted in many colours And painted many ways. On one end of the basket was shown2 Amidst a hundred golden clouds A Dawn which covered The sky with colourful flowers; Her waving hair flying, Blown by the breath from the nostrils Of the nearby horses drawing The sun from the waters of the sea.3 As it makes its journey in the heavens On its curved, twisting route, It turns entirely around The handle [of the basket] in a similar way; The sinews on the horses swell And their undaunted power Tires under the labours Of the arduous climb. The sea is painted below, The water ripples so well on it That a fisherman would not deny That it was natural; And the sun sinking at evening Into the waves beside, goes in With head lowered, letting itself fall Right to the bottom of its great belly. On the brow of a rock A shepherd watches a wolf Which hastens to get near The cowardly race which he guards; But he cares not about that So much he is amused by a snail That slowly climbs to the top Of a lily, at the bottom of the meadow. A frolicking satyr, A thief, as he frolics steals A basket and milk From another frolicking satyr; The one runs after him, utterly livid, The other defends his spoils, The milk gets tipped over them And soils their breasts and chins. Two rams crashing together The tops of their hard heads Shown at the two edges were The last of its pictures. Such was the basket which Leda took In her hands, she who outshines her followers, On the day when a bird would make her A woman instead of a maid. One [of the ladies] picked with her white fingers The tears of fair Narcissus, And the letters painted by the blood Of the Greek distraught over the armour. 4 In fear the pink carnation Pales amidst these looters, And so too the flower which you, o Sun, Still watch over from the heavens. As competitively they were picking The green treasures of the plain, The buttercup and lily, The rose and marjoram, The maid spoke thus, Ignorant of her fate: “Leave your perfumed prey, The flowers that are so many here. Come, my happy band Whom I love with an artless love, Come and hear the sad bird Who laments upon our riverbank.” And she, hurrying her steps, Ran through the grass with quick feet; Her band did not follow, So sudden was her flight. On the bank, she held out her hand to it And the bird, which was fidgeting with pleasure, Approached her, entirely like a man, And kissed her white ivory. Sometimes the false bird 5 Played on the bank amidst the flowers, Sometimes on top of the water It swam, all daintily, near her. Then in a jolly fashion It curved both wings over its back, And with the sound of its singing It tamed the fair maid. The silly girl felt His hidden fire in her lap, Making all around The swan little flowers of light. He, from being so gracious, As he saw his opportune moment Became more daring, Going with fortune’s flow. With long waves of his neck He touched the maid’s breast And then placed his beak Within her crimson mouth. Putting his spurs upon The arms of her he grasped, And pressing down with his belly, He forced her, unwilling, to the ground. Beneath the swan she fought hard, Pinching and biting him, yet it was That in the midst of her efforts She felt her youth stolen away. Cinnabar here and there Coloured the shamed lass. In the end she spoke In a disdainful voice: “Where are you from, you flying deceiver? Where do you come from, who dare To go around thus raping Girls of noble race? I thought your heart, alas, Was like the colours you wear, But – poor me! – you have one Of another sort, to my destruction. O heavens, who hear my cries, I would rather be dead and shut up Down below, since my springtime Has been stripped of its rose! Rather come and eat me, Some hungry widowed tigress, Than that I should be called the wife Of some unknown bird.” Her limbs fell strengthless And her eyes were already swimming In death, her neighbout, when The swan replied thus to her: “Maiden,” he said, “I am not What I seem to you as you see me; Greater things can I do Than the swan I appear; I am the master of the heavens, I am he who looses The insolent thunderbolts Upon the hard flanks of the earth. A painful compulsion For your warmer [colour], which excites me, Made me take on the colour Of these feathers which are not mine. So do not go on complaining About the misfortune of your fate; You will forthwith be Neptune’s sister-in-law, And so you will lay two eggs From my fruitful seed, And with them two new triumphs, Future ornaments of the world. One will disclose two twins: Pollux, valiant in the swordfight, And his brother who will be praised As the finest of horsemen; Within the other will grow The beauty, chosen for heaven, For whom one day Europe Will take arms against Asia.” At these words, she accepted, Gaining such an outcome, And then little by little felt Her belt rising higher. |
3 i.e. the sun’s chariot, pulled by fiery horses, rising from the sea at dawn
4 the narcissus grew from the tears of Narcissus; the ‘flower of Ajax’ [perhaps a fritillary (lily) or a larkspur] grew from the blood spilled at his suicide on failing to win the arms of Achilles, and the Greeks read its markings as the letters AI (= ‘ah, woe!’)
5 the French word means both ‘fake’ and ‘adulterous’; ‘false’ carries something of the same effect in English
Those unfamiliar with the myth – which was a major source of inspiration to Renaissance artists – should glance at Wikipedia, or this indicative set of images! The reference in the last stanza is to Helen of Troy.Stances lyriques (Lyric stanzas) – from the Poèmes retranchées
This one comes with variant subtitles: in Marty-Laveaux it is simply “pour un banquet” (‘for a banquet’); but the Blanchemain version is helpfully headed “Stances promptement faites pour jouer sur la lyre, un joueur respondant à l’autre, au baptesme du fils de Monsieur de Villeroy, en faveur de Monsieur de l’Aubespine à présent” (‘Stanzas written to be played on the lyre, one player responding to the other, at the baptism of the son of M. de Villeroy …’). Here then is a prime example of Ronsard’s concern to make his poetry adaptable to music. Many of his ‘withdrawn’ items were withdrawn simply because their rhyme-schemes no longer fitted the more advanced ideas he developed – principally, about metrical regularity in the use of masculine & feminine endings (broadly, alternating 10-syllable and 11-syllable lines, which clearly has an impact on the way a composer sets the text).
I Joueur Autant qu’au Ciel on voit de flames Dorer la nuict de leur clartez, Autant voit-on icy de Dames Orner ce soir de leurs beautez. II Joueur Autant que l’on voit une prée Fleurir en jeunes nouveautez Autant ceste troupe sacrée S’enrichit de mille beautez. I La Cyprine et les Graces nuës, Se desrobant de leur sejour, Sont au festin icy venuës, Pour de la nuict faire un beau jour. II Ce ne sont pas femmes mortelles Qui vous esclairent de leurs yeux, Ce sont Déesses eternelles, Qui pour un soir quittent les Cieux. I Quand Amour perdroit ses flaméches Et ses dards trempez de soucy, Il trouveroit assez de fléches Aux yeux de ces Dames icy. II Amour qui cause nos detresses Par la cruauté de ses dards, Fait son arc de leurs blondes tresses, Et ses fléches de leurs regards. I Il ne faut point que l’on desire Qu’autre saison puisse arriver, Voicy un Printemps qui souspire Ses fleurs au milieu de l’Hyver. II Ce mois de Janvier qui surmonte Avril par la vertu des yeux De ces Damoiselles, fait honte Au Printemps le plus gracieux. I Ce grand Dieu, Prince du tonnerre, Puisse sans moi l’air habiter, Il me plaist bien de voir en terre Ce qui peut blesser Jupiter. II Les Dieux épris comme nous sommes, Pour l’amour quittent leur sejour : Mais je ne voy point que les hommes Aillent là-haut faire l’amour. I A la couleur des fleurs écloses Ces Dames ont le teint pareil, Aux blancs Lys, aux vermeilles roses Qui naissent comme le Soleil. II Leur blanche main est un yvoire, De leurs yeux les astres se font : Amour a planté sa victoire Sus la Majesté de leur front. I Las ! que ne suis-je en ceste trope Un Dieu caché sous un Toreau ? Je ravirois encore Europe Au beau milieu de ce tropeau. II Que n’ay-je d’un Cygne la plume, Pour joüir encore à plaisir De ceste beauté qui m’allume Le cœur de crainte et de desir ? I Amour qui tout void et dispense, Ces Dames vueille contenter : Et si la rigueur les offense, Nouvel amy leur presenter. II Afin qu’au changer de l’année, Et au retour des jeunes fleurs, Une meilleure destinée Puisse commander à leurs cœurs. | Just as we see the lights in heaven Gild the night with their brightness, So we see here ladies Adorn the evenings with their beauty. Just as we see a meadow Flower with fresh newness, So this holy band Enriches itself with a thousand beauties. The Cyprian goddess [Venus] and the naked Graces, Abandoning their homes, Have come here to the feast To make night into fair day. These are not mortal women Who light you with their eyes, These are eternal goddesses Who have, for an evening, have left the heavens. When love loses his fiery bolts And his darts drenched in pain, He will find enough arrows In the eyes of these ladies here. Love who causes our distress Through the cruelty of his darts Makes his bow from their blond tresses And his arrows from their glances. We need not wish That another season might arrive, Here is spring, breathing out Its flowers in the midst of winter. This month of January, which is better Than April because of the power in the eyes Of these maidens, makes ashamed Even the most graceful spring. That great god, prince of thunder, Can live in the sky without me; I am quite happy seeing on earth That beauty which can wound Jupiter. The gods, smitten as we are, Leave their dwelling for love; But I never see men Going up there to make love! Like the colour of blossoming flowers Is the hue these Ladies have, Like white lilies, like crimson roses, Which grow as the sun. Their white hands are ivory, Of their eyes are the stars made; Love has founded his victory On the majesty of their brows. Alas, why can’t I be among this troop A god hidden beneath [the likeness of] a bull? I would again steal away Europa From the fair midst of this troop. Why can’t I have the feathers of a swan, To play again at my pleasure With this beauty which fires my Heart with fear and longing? Love, who sees all and grants all, Wishes to please these Ladies; And if my strictness injures them He will present them a new lover. If only, at the turn of the year And when the young flowers come back, A better fate Might control their hearts. |
(Like most items “retranchées”, there is not much to report concerning variants: in this case, “fleurer” rather than ‘fleurir’ in the second verse (a variant conjugation for the verb) is about the only interest!)