Amours 1.205

Just back after a short holiday. Let’s have a sonnet.

 

Comme on souloit si plus on ne me blasme

D’avoir l’esprit et le corps ocieux,

L’honneur en soit au trait de ces beaux yeux,

Qui m’ont poli l’imparfait de mon ame.

 

Le seul rayon de leur gentille flame

Dressant en l’air mon vol audacieux

Pour voir le Tout m’esleva jusqu’aux Cieux,

Dont ici bas la partie m’enflame.

 

Par le moins beau qui mon penser aila,

Au sein du beau mon penser s’en vola,

Espoinçonné d’une manie extresme :

 

Là du vray beau j’adore le parfait,

Là, d’ocieux actif je me suis fait,

Là je cogneu ma maistresse et moy-mesme.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            If, as they used to, people no longer blame me

                                                                            For having a lazy mind and body,

                                                                            The honour for it is in the wound of those fair eyes

                                                                            Which have polished the imperfections of my soul.

 

                                                                            The ray of their noble flame alone,

                                                                            Supporting in the air my daring flight

                                                                            To see the All, raised me to heaven –

                                                                            Down here, [just] a part inflames me.

 

                                                                            By that less-fair way which gave my thoughts wings,

                                                                            My thoughts flew to the bosom of the Fair,

                                                                            Tortured by extreme obsession ;

 

                                                                            There I adore the perfection of true Beauty,

                                                                            There I become active, not lazy,

                                                                            There I have found my mistress and myself.

 

 

 

Charmingly, Ronsard acknowledges that a writer’s life draws its share of criticism (‘laziness’), but also – and equally charmingly – lays a claim to fame and worth for his work, in that people no longer criticise him for spending his time writing! And, still charmingly, he deflects the implicit charge of pride by pointing the attention (of course) at Cassandre. All neatly done in a couple of lines. Brilliant.

 

His first version took a slightly different route, and one which less-effectively avoids the charge of pride: this time it is Ronsard, not his readers, who acknowledges Cassandre’s primary role:

 

 

Comme on souloit si plus on ne me blasme

D’avoir l’esprit et le corps ocieux,

Je t’en rends grace, heureux traits de ces yeux,

Qui m’as poli l’imparfait de mon ame.

 

 

                                                                            If as they did, people no longer blame me

                                                                            For having a lazy mind and body,

                                                                            I give you thanks for it, lucky darts of those eyes,

                                                                            You who have polished the imperfections of my soul.

 

 

 There’s also a small change in line 5, which reads “de si gentille flame” (‘ of so noble a flame’).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Amours 1.216

Amour, que j’aime à baiser les beaux yeux

De ma maistresse, et à tordre en ma bouche

De ses cheveux l’or fin qui s’escarmouche

Dessus son front astré comme les cieux !

 

C’est à mon gré le meilleur de son mieux

Que son bel œil, qui jusqu’au cœur me touche,

Dont le beau nœud d’un Scythe plus farouche

Rendroit le cœur courtois et gracieux.

 

Son beau poil d’or, et ses sourcis encore

De leurs beautez font vergoingner l’Aurore,

Quand au matin elle embellit le jour.

 

Dedans son œil une vertu demeure,

Qui va jurant par les fleches d’Amour

De me guarir : mais je ne m’en asseure.

 

 

 

                                                                            Love, how I love kissing the beautiful eyes

                                                                            Of my mistress, and twisting in my mouth

                                                                            The fine gold of her hair which skirmishes

                                                                            Over her brow, starry like the heavens!

 

                                                                            In my opinion, the best of her best

                                                                            Is her fair eye, which touches me deep in my heart,

                                                                            And her fair Scythian knot, still wilder,

                                                                            Makes my heart courteous and graceful.

 

                                                                            Her fair golden hair, her eyebrows too

                                                                            With their beauties make the Dawn blush

                                                                            When in the morning she beautifies the day.

 

                                                                            Within her eye lives a power

                                                                            Which keeps swearing by Love’s arrows

                                                                            To cure me; but I won’t rely on it.

 

 

 

Again, Ronsard takes tropes he’s ued and re-used many times, and makes something fresh and vibrant out of them. I do like this poem, and the ending especially wraps up a marvellous complex of feelings both positive and negative about the condition of love in just a few words.

 

 Although the earlier version shares a recognisable set of ideas with this later version, in detail it is a different poem! (Fortunately, the different opening words signal there’s change to watch out for.) Note how some re-punctuation around line 7’s Scythian completely shifts the meaning.

 

 

Mon Dieu, que j’aime à baiser les beaux yeux

De ma maistresse, et à tordre en ma bouche

De ses cheveux l’or fin qui s’escarmouche

Si gayement dessus deux petits cieux !

 

C’est à mon gré ce qui lui sied le mieux

Que ce bel œil, qui jusqu’au cœur me touche,

Et ce beau poil, qui d’un Scythe farouche

Prendroit le cœur en ses plis gracieux.

 

Ses longs cheveux, et ses sourcis encore

De leurs beautez font vergongner l’Aurore,

Quand plus crineuse elle embellit le ciel,

 

Et dans cet œil je ne sais quoi demeure

Qui me peut faire en amour à toute heure

Le sucre fiel et le riagas miel. 

 

 

                                                                            My god, how I love kissing the beautiful eyes

                                                                            Of my mistress, and twisting in my mouth

                                                                            The fine gold of her hair which skirmishes

                                                                            So gaily above those two small heavens.

 

                                                                            In my opinion, the things which suit her best,

                                                                            Are that fair eye, which touches me deep in my heart,

                                                                            And that beautiful hair, which would seize the heart

                                                                            Of a wild Scythian in its graceful folds.

 

                                                                            Her long hair, her eyebrows too

                                                                            With their beauties make the Dawn blush

                                                                            When with hair spread wide she beautifies the sky.

 

                                                                            And in that eye lives some unknown

                                                                            Bitter sugar and honey-sweet poison

                                                                            Which can make me be in love all the time. 

 

 

Blanchemain also offers us another complete re-write of the final tercet, from 1587 (Marty-Laveaux’s is the 1584 text), which shows that Ronsard never really felt any of his poems, even the delightfully-good ones, were a finished statement:

 

En son œil vole une image vestue

D’aile et de traits : je croy que c’est Amour,

Je le cognois, il me blesse, il me tue. 

 

                                                                            In her eye floats an image clothed

                                                                            With wings and barbs; I believe it is Love,

                                                                            I recognise him – he wounds me, he kills me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Amours retranch. 49 – A Song for Cassandre

 

Il me semble que la journée Dure plus longue qu’une année, Quand par malheur je n’ay ce bien De voir la grand’ beauté de celle Qui tient mon cœur, et sans laquelle Vissé-je tout, je ne voy rien.   Quiconques fut jadis le Sage Qui dit que l’amoureux courage Vit de ce qu’il ayme, il dit vray ; Ailleurs vivant il ne peut estre, Ny d’autre viande se paistre : J’en suis seur, j’en ay fait l’essay.   Tousjours l’amant vit en l’aimée : Pour cela mon ame affamée Ne se veut souler que d’amour, De l’amour elle est si friande, Que sans plus de telle viande Se veut repaistre nuit et jour.   Si quelqu’un dit que je m’abuse, Voye luy-mesme la Meduse Qui d’un rocher m’a fait le cœur ; Et l’ayant veuë je m’asseure Qu’il sera fait sur la mesme heure Le compagnon de mon malheur.   Car est-il homme que n’enchante La voix d’une Dame sçavante, Et fust-il Scythe en cruauté ? Il n’est point de plus grand’ magie Que la docte voix d’une amie, Quand elle est jointe à la beauté.   Or j’aime bien, je le confesse, Et plus j’iray vers la vieillesse, Et plus constant j’aimeray mieux : Je n’oubliray, fussé-je en cendre, La douce amour de ma Cassandre, Qui loge mon cœur dans ses yeux.   Adieu liberté ancienne, Comme chose qui n’est plus mienne, Adieu ma chere vie, adieu : Ta fuite ne me peut desplaire, Puis que ma perte volontaire Se retreuve en un si beau lieu.   Chanson, va-t’en où je t’adresse Dans la chambre de ma Maistresse, Dy-luy, baisant sa blanche main, Que pour en santé me remettre, Il ne luy faut sinon permettre Que tu te caches dans son sein.

It seems to me that a day Lasts longer than a year When by mischance I do not have the benefit Of seeing the great beauty of her Who holds my heart, and without whom Even if I see everything I see nothing.   Whoever was in olden days the wise man Who said that a lover’s courage Lives on the one he loves, spoke truly; He could not live in any other way, Nor feed on any other food. I’m sure of it: I’ve tried it.   The lover lives all the time in the beloved; For that reason my famished soul Wishes to drink deeply of Love alone; It is so partial to love That on such food and nothing more It wishes to dine both night and day.   If anyone wants to claim I’m deceiving myself, Let him look upon the Medusa Who has made my heart into a rock; Having seen her, I am sure That he will be made that same moment A fellow in my troubles.   For is there a man whom the voice Of a wise woman cannot enchant, Even if he were like a Scythian in cruelty? There is no greater magic Than the cunning voice of your beloved When it is joined with beauty.   Still, I love it, I confess, And the further I go towards old age The more, and the more constantly, I shall love it. I will not forget, even were I mere dust, The sweet love of my Cassandre Who keeps me heart in her eyes.   Farewell my old freedom, Like something no longer mine, Farewell my dear life, farewell: Your loss cannot displease me Since my own voluntary ruin Has landed me in so fair a place.   Away, my song, go where I send you Into the chamber of my mistress, And tell her, kissing her white hand, That to return me to health She need only allow You to hide in her breast.

 

The heading, “Chanson pour Cassandre”, is pretty self-explanatory; and there’s little in the poem which needs commentary. Medusa (4th stanza) of course turned everything she set eyes on into stone; Scythians (next stanza) were famously barbaric and therefore cruel. The last stanza is reminiscent of several other poems we’ve seen in which a bird is sent to Cassandre.

 

 

 

 

Amours retranch. 34

Quand je serois un Turc, un Arabe, ou un Scythe,

Pauvre captif, malade, et d’honneur dévestu,

Laid, vieillard, impotent, encor’ ne devrois-tu

Estre, comme tu es, envers moy si dépite :

 

Je suis bien asseuré que mon cœur ne merite

D’aimer en si bon lieu, mais ta seule vertu

Me force de ce faire ; et plus je suis batu

De ta fiere rigueur, plus ta beauté m’incite.

 

Si tu penses trouver un serviteur qui soit

Digne de ta beauté, ton penser te deçoit,

Car un Dieu (tant s’en faut un homme) n’en est digne.

 

Si tu veux donc aimer, il faut changer de cœur :

Ne sçais-tu que Venus (bien qu’elle fust divine)

Jadis pour son amy choisit bien un pasteur ?

 

 

 

 

                                                                            If I were a Turk, an Arab, or a Scyth,

                                                                            A poor captive, ill and dishonoured,

                                                                            Vile, old, powerless – still you ought not

                                                                            To be as spiteful as you are towards me!

 

                                                                            I am firmly assured that my heart does not deserve

                                                                            To be in love in so good a place, but your virtue alone

                                                                            Forces me to do this, and the more I am beaten down

                                                                            By your proud harshness, the more your beauty urges me on.

 

                                                                            If you think you’ll find a servant who is

                                                                            Worthy of your beauty, your thoughts deceive you

                                                                            For a god – let alone a man – is not worthy of it.

 

                                                                            If you wish then to be in love, you must change your heart:

                                                                            Do you not know that Venus, though she was divine,

                                                                            Once even chose as her lover a shepherd.

 

 

 

The classical allusion at the end of the poem is to Anchises, father of Aeneas. Readers of Virgil book 2 will know that Venus was his mother; Anchises, his father, was seduced by her and she later presented him with a son. So, although a shepherd, he was not exactly an ordinary shepherd!

 

 

 

 

To Robert Garnier (2)

Il me souvient, Garnier, que je prestay la main

Quant ta Muse accoucha, je le veux faire encore :

Le parrain bien souvent par l’enfant se decore,

Par l’enfant bien souvent s’honore le parrain.

 

Ton ouvrage, Garnier, Tragique et Souverain,

Qui fils, parrain ensemble, et toute France honore,

Fera voller ton nom du Scythe jusque au More,

Plus dur contre les ans que marbre ny qu’airain.

 

Réjoüy-toy, mon Loir, ta gloire est infinie,

Huyne et Sarte tes sœurs te feront compagnie,

Faisant Garnier, Belleau et Ronsard estimer :

 

Trois fleuves qu’Appollon en trois esprits assemble.

Quand trois fleuves, Garnier, se desgorgent ensemble,

Bien qu’ils ne soient pas grands, font une grande mer.

 

 

 

 

                                                                             I am reminded, Garnier, that I lent a hand

                                                                             When your Muse was giving birth, I would like to do it again;

                                                                             The godfather often gains glory through the child,

                                                                             Through the child the godfather is often honoured.

 

                                                                             Your oeuvre, Garnier, tragic and regal,

                                                                             Which child, godfather, and all of France together honour,

                                                                             Will make your name known from Scythia to the Moor,

                                                                             Stronger against the years than marble or bronze.

 

                                                                             Rejoice, my Loir, your fame is infinite,

                                                                             Your sisters the Huyne and Sarte will bear you company,

                                                                             Making Garnier, Belleau and Ronsard renowned;

 

                                                                             Three rivers which Apollo gathered in three spirits.

                                                                             When three rivers flow together, Garnier,

                                                                             Even if they are not great, they make a great sea.

 

 

 

I find the beginning strangely attractive – ‘il me souvient’ not ‘je me souviens’.  I’ve tried to capture something of its oddness by saying not ‘I remember’ but ‘I am reminded’. In line 7 his name/renown is to ‘fly’ as far as Scythia in the east and the Moorish peoples in the south.

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 206

Fier Aquilon horreur de la Scythie,
Le chasse-nue, et l’esbranle-rocher,
L’irrite-mer, et qui fais approcher
Aux enfers l’une, aux cieux l’autre partie:

 

S’il te souvient de la belle Orithye,
Toy de l’Hiver le ministre et l’archer,
Fais à mon Loir ses mines relascher,

Tant que ma Dame à rive soit sortie.

 

Ainsi ton front ne soit jamais moiteux,
Et ton gosier horriblement venteux
Mugle tousjours dans les cavernes basses :

 

Ainsi les bras des chesnes les plus vieux,
Ainsi la terre et la mer et les cieux
Tremblent d’effroy, quelque part où tu passes.

 

 

 

 

                                                                              Noble north wind, horror of Scythia,

                                                                              Pursuer of the naked, shaker of rocks,

                                                                              Stirrer of the seas, you who bring close

                                                                              On one side hell, on the other heaven;

 

                                                                              If you remember the fair Orithyia,

                                                                              O agent and archer of Winter,

                                                                              Make my Loir relax her complexion

                                                                              As my Lady goes out upon her bank.

 

                                                                              Then, may your brow never be damp,

                                                                              May your terribly windy throat

                                                                              Bellow still within deep caverns;

 

                                                                              Then may the arms of the ancient oaks,

                                                                              Then may the earth and sea and sky

                                                                              Tremble in fear, wherever you pass.

 

  

 

By contrast with several recent posts, here we have a poem which remains unchanged between early and late editions!  Blanchemain offers us a footnote explaining the reference to Orithyia:  this “is the name of a daughter of king Erechtheus, with whom the North Wind Boreas was in love and whom he ravished”. To which we might add that their sons were Calaïs and Zetes, the winged heroes who joined the expedition of the Argonauts.

 

 

 

 

Chanson (25b)

Fleur Angevine de quinze ans,
Ton front monstre assez de simplesse :
Mais ton cœur ne cache au-dedans
Sinon que malice et finesse,
Celant sous ombre d’amitié
Une jeunette mauvaistié.

 

Ren moy (si tu as quelque honte)
Mon cœur que je t’avois donné,
Dont tu ne fais non-plus de conte
Que d’un esclave emprisonné,
T’esjouyssant de sa misere,
Et te plaisant de luy desplaire.

 

Une autre moins belle que toy,
Mais bien de meilleure nature,
Le voudroit bien avoir de moy.
Elle l’aura, je te le jure :
Elle l’aura, puis qu’autrement
Il n’a de toy bon traitement.

 

Mais non :  j’aime trop mieux qu’il meure

Sans esperance en ta prison :

J’aime trop mieux qu’il y demeure

Mort de douleur contre raison,

Qu’en te changeant jouïr de celle

Qui m’est plus douce, et non si belle.

 

 

                                                                      My fifteen-year-old flower of Anjou,

                                                                      Your brow shows simplicity enough;

                                                                      But your heart hides nothing inside

                                                                      But malice and cunning,

                                                                      Hiding, beneath the appearance of love,

                                                                      A childish wickedness.

 

                                                                      Give me back, if you have any shame,

                                                                      My heart which I gave you,

                                                                      Which is of no more account to you

                                                                      Than an imprisoned slave,

                                                                      Since you rejoice in its wretchedness

                                                                      And please yourself by displeasing it.

 

                                                                      Another less lovely than yourself

                                                                      But much better-natured

                                                                      Would surely like to have it from me.

                                                                      She will have it, I swear it to you:

                                                                      She will have it, if from now on

                                                                      It does not have better treatment from you.

 

                                                                      But no! I much prefer that it should die

                                                                      Hopeless in your prison;

                                                                      I much prefer that it should stay

                                                                      Dead of grief beyond reason,

                                                                      Than that, in exchanging you, it should enjoy her

                                                                      Who is kinder to me, but not so lovely.

 

 

What a charming song!   It’s hard to think Ronsard would have played around with so charming a piece, but in fact Blanchemain’s version is different almost throughout.  Here’s his text, marked up as usual.

 

 

Belle et jeune fleur de quinze ans,
Qui sens encore ton enfance,
Mais bien qui caches au dedans
Un cœur rempli de decevance,
Celant sous ombre d’amitié
Une jeunette mauvaistié.

 

Ren moy (si tu as quelque honte)
Mon cœur que tu m’as emmené,
Dont tu ne fais non-plus de conte
Que d’un prisonnier enchaisné,
Ou d’un valet, ou d’un forcere
Qui est esclave d’un corsaire.

 

Une autre moins belle que toy,
Mais plus que toi courtoise et bonne,
Le veut de grace avoir de moy.
Me priant que je le luy donne.
Elle l’aura, puis qu’autrement
Il n’a de toy bon traitement.

 

Mais non :  j’aime trop mieux qu’il meure
Dedans la prison de tes mains :
J’aime trop mieux qu’il y demeure
Tourmenté de maux inhumains,
Qu’en te changeant jouïr de celle

Qui m’est plus douce, et non si belle.

 

 

 

                                                                      Fair young flower aged fifteen,
                                                                      Who still feel you are in your childhood,
                                                                      But who indeed hide inside you
                                                                      A heart filled with deception,
                                                                      Hiding beneath the appearance of love
                                                                      A childish wickedness.

 

                                                                      Give me back, if you have any shame,
                                                                      My heart which you took from me,
                                                                      Which is of no more account to you
                                                                      Than a chained prisoner,
                                                                      Or a manservant, or a drudge
                                                                      Who is a pirate’s slave.

 

                                                                      Another less lovely than yourself
                                                                      But more courteous and kind than you
                                                                      Would like, please, to have it from me
                                                                      And begs me to give her it.
                                                                      She will have it, if from now on
                                                                      It does not have better treatment from you.

 

                                                                      But no! I much prefer that it should die
                                                                      Within the prison of your hands;
                                                                      I much prefer that it should stay
                                                                      Tortured by inhuman evils,
                                                                      Than that, in exchanging you, it should enjoy her

                                                                      Who is kinder to me, but not so lovely.

 

 

This also one of the poems of Marullus ‘translated’ by Ronsard into a substantially different French poem: the compression of some parts of Marullus’s original, and expansion of others, make this a re-imagining of the poem rather than a real translation:

 

 

Puella mure delicatior Scytha

    foliive serici comis

vel educata rure Paestano rosa

    vel anseris pluma levi,

eademque duris dura cautibus magis,

    quas tundit hibernum mare,

cum nubilosis Africus pennis gravis,

    saevit Ligustico sinu :

remitte cor, siquis pudor, mihi meum,

    quod mille cepisti dolis

 (dum nunc ocello dulce subrides nigro,

    nunc fronte spem certa facis),

quod nunc habes in vinculis quasi Syrum

    aut comparatum Sarmatam ;

verum remitte, dura, non ultra tuum :

    jam enim rogat melior sibi,

quae nos ocellis diligit suis magis,

    neque hoc neque illud imputat.

An tu putabas scilicet firmum tibi

    tot barbare affectum modis ?

Quanquam beati centies et amplius,

    siquos tenaci compede

quae prima vix dum puberes junxit fides,

    eadem extulit pios senes !

 

 

                                                                      O girl more delicate than a Scythian mouse

                                                                      Or the leaves of the silk-trees,

                                                                      Or a rose grown in Paestum’s fields,

                                                                      Or the soft feather of a goose;

                                                                      And at the same time more hard than hard crags

                                                                      Which the wintry sea buffets

                                                                      When the oppressive African [Sou’westerly] wind on its cloudy wings

                                                                      Rages in a Ligurian bay:

                                                                      Give me back my heart, if you have any shame,

                                                                      Which you captured with a thousand tricks

                                                                      (One time you would smile sweetly with your dark eyes,

                                                                      Another you’d offer hope with an assuring look)

                                                                      And which you now hold in chains like a Syrian

                                                                      Or the Sarmatian matched with him;

                                                                      Give it back indeed, harsh one, it is no longer yours:

                                                                      Now indeed one better than you asks for it,

                                                                      Who prefers me to her own eyes,

                                                                      And does not reckon up this or that to my account.

                                                                      Did you perhaps think it would be loyal to you

                                                                      After being barbarously wronged in so many ways?

                                                                      Yet they are blessed a hundred times and more,

                                                                      Those whom first love bound with tight fetters

                                                                      While they were barely grown ,

                                                                      And whom the same love buries when they are pious old folk!

 

 

Some commentary may help: I’m not sure that Scythian mice are known to be specially soft; but the part of Italy round Paestum (Campania, the region of Naples) is traditionally a fertile region. The coast of Liguria (running from Nice round past Genoa and towards Lucca) generally faces south/south west, so a SW wind will blow straight into many of the harbours and bays there. The Syrian and Sarmatian are ‘matched’ or ‘linked’ because of Ovid: the Roman poet lived in exile on the Black Sea & in his poems (the ‘Tristia’ and ‘Ex Ponto’) referred to the barbarians he was surrounded by as both Syrians and Sarmatians.

 

 

 

 

Madrigal (6a)

Prenez mon coeur, Dame, prenez mon coeur,
Prenez mon coeur, je vous l’offre, ma Dame :
Il est tout vostre, et ne peut d’autre feme,
Tant vostre il est, devenir serviteur.

 

Doncque si vostre, il meurt vostre en langueur :
Vostre à jamais, vostre en sera le blâme :
Et si là bas on punira vostre ame
Pour tel peché d’une juste rigueur.

 

Quand vous seriez quelque fille d’un Scythe,
Encor l’amour qui les Tigres incite,
Vous flechiroit : mais trop cruellement

 

Vous me gesnez de tourment sur tourment,

Me reperçant d’amoureuses halesnes,
Pour tesmoigner que du commencement
L’homme nasquit de rochers et de chesnes.

 

 

                                                                      Take my heart, Lady, take my heart;
                                                                      Take my heart, I offer you it, my Lady;
                                                                      It is entirely yours and cannot become,
                                                                      So completely it’s yours, the servant of another lady.

 

                                                                      Yet if yours, it is dying yours, in pining;
                                                                      Yours forever, yours will be the blame;
                                                                      And so down below they will punish your soul
                                                                      For such a sin with deserved harshness. 

 

                                                                      Were you some Scythian’s daughter,
                                                                      Still then the love which urges the tigers
                                                                      Would move you; but too cruelly

 

                                                                      You trouble me with torment upon torment,

                                                                      Piercing me again and again with a lover’s sighs,
                                                                      Bearing witness that from the beginning
                                                                      Man has been born of stone and wood.

 

 

 Scythians make another appearance, as models of barbarian cruelty.

 

Here, interestingly, Blanchemain offers a sonnet under the title ‘Madrigal’, with variants that (as he records in a footnote) ‘make the sonnet into a madrigal’: first, the poem as a sonnet (changes against the above marked in red):

 

Prenez mon coeur, Dame, prenez mon coeur,
Prenez mon coeur, je vous l’offre, ma Dame :
Il est tout vostre, et ne peut d’autre feme,
Tant vostre il est, devenir serviteur.

 

Doncque si vostre, il meurt vostre en langueur :
Vostre à jamais, vostre en sera le blâme :
Et si là bas on punira vostre ame
Pour ce malfait d’une injuste rigueur.

 

Quand vous seriez quelque fille d’un Scythe,
Encor l’amour qui les Tigres incite,
Vous forceroit de mon mal secourir.

 

Mais vous, trop plus qu‘une tigresse fière,

Las ! de mon coeur vous êtes la meurdrière,
Et ne vivez que de le voir mourir.

 

 

                                                                      Take my heart, Lady, take my heart;
                                                                      Take my heart, I offer you it, my Lady;
                                                                      It is entirely yours and cannot become,
                                                                      So completely it’s yours, the servant of another lady. 

 

                                                                      Yet if yours, it is dying yours, in pining;
                                                                      Yours forever, yours will be the blame;
                                                                      And so down below they will punish your soul
                                                                      For this misdeed with unjust harshness. 

 

                                                                      Were you some Scythian’s daughter,
                                                                      Still then the love which urges the tigers
                                                                      Would force you to relieve my ills.

 

                                                                     But you, so much more than a proud tigress,

                                                                      Are, alas, the murderer of my heart
                                                                      And live only to see it die.

 

 

His variant form reverts to the text provided by Marty-Laveaux except that he adds another line! The madrigal then becomes a series of 4 equal 4-line stanzas.  Here are the last two, as offered by Blanchemain:

 

 

Quand vous seriez quelque fille d’un Scythe,
Encor l’amour qui les Tigres incite,
Vous flechiroit : mais trop cruellement
Du frein d’amour vous me serrez les resnes,

 

Et me gesnez de tourment sur tourment,
Me reperçant d’amoureuses halesnes,
Pour tesmoigner que du commencement
L’homme nasquit de rochers et de chesnes.

 

 

                                                                      Were you some Scythian’s daughter,
                                                                      Still then the love which urges the tigers

                                                                      Would move you; but too cruelly
                                                                      With the bit of love you tighten my reins 

 

                                                                      And trouble me with torment upon torment,

                                                                      Piercing me again and again with a lover’s sighs,
                                                                      Bearing witness that from the beginning
                                                                      Man has been born of stone and wood.

 

 

[In the last line, literally, ‘stone and oak’ but the generic form is clearly meant.]

 

 

 

 

Marie – Sonnet 9

Marie, qui voudroit vostre nom retourner,

Il trouveroit aimer : aimez-moi donc, Marie,

Vostre nom de nature à l’amour vous convie,

A qui trahist Nature il ne faut pardonner:

 

S’il vous plaist vostre coeur pour gage me donner,

Je vous offre le mien : ainsi de ceste vie,

Nous prendrons les plaisirs, et jamais autre envie

Ne me pourra l’esprit d’une autre emprisonner.

 

Il faut aimer, maistresse, au monde quelque chose.

Celuy qui n’aime point, malheureux se propose

Une vie d’un Scythe, et ses jours veut passer

 

Sans gouster la douceur des douceurs la meilleure.

Rien n’est doux sans Venus et sans son fils : à l’heure

Que je n’aimeray plus puissé-je trespasser.

 

 

 

                                                                      Marie, anyone who tried re-arranging your name

                                                                      Would find “Aimer” [‘to love’]; so love me, Marie,

                                                                      Your name by its nature makes you ready to love,

                                                                      And anyone who betrays Nature should not be pardoned.

 

                                                                      If you please, give me your heart as a pledge,

                                                                      I offer you mine; thus in this life

                                                                      We’ll take our pleasures, and never will any other desire

                                                                      Be able to make my spirit prisoner of another.

 

                                                                      You have to love something in this world, mistress.

                                                                      Whoever loves not at all, wretchedly offers himself

                                                                      The life of a Scythian, and wants to spend his days

 

                                                                      Without tasting the sweetest sweet of all.

                                                                      Nothing is sweet without Love and her son; at the moment

                                                                      When I cease loving, may I die!

 

 

Blanchemain helpfully (!) prints this footnote for lines 1-2:  “The anagram of Marie’s name is ‘aimer’.”  So now you see what Ronsard did there…   Any anagram is in one sense untranslateable: an English equivalent might be, “Olive, by mixing your name up we’d get ‘I love’ ” – – but Olive doesn’t sound as romantic as Marie to me, unfortunately. That said, the very first published set of French love sonnets was Joachim du Bellay’s “L’Olive” addressed, indeed, to Olive!

 

The Scythians were a nomadic ‘barbarian’ tribe – therefore one living a harsh life and possessing minimal luxuries.

 

This is one of those sonnets Ronsard re-wrote substantially. That line 8 above is as convoluted as anything he wrote, so I can see why he came back to this poem several times! Two more versions then: plus the English version by Tony Kline, which you can find here.

 

The version printed by Blanchemain is virtually a new poem, which just shares some lines with the one above:

 

 

Marie, qui voudroit vostre nom retourner,

Il trouveroit Aimer : aimez-moy donc, Marie ;

Puisque vostre beau nom à l’amour vous convie,

Il faut vostre jeunesse à l’amour adonner.

 

S’il vous plaist pour jamais vostre amy m’ordonner,

Ensemble nous prendrons les plaisirs de la vie,

D’une amour contre-aimée, et jamais autre envie

Ne me pourra le coeur de vostre detourner.

 

Si faut-il bien aimer au monde quelque chose ;

Celuy qui n’aime point, pour son but se propose

Une vie d’un Scythe, et ses jours veut passer

 

Sans gouster la douceur des douceurs la meilleure.

Eh! qu’est-il rien de doux sans Venus? las! à l’heure

Que je n’aimeray point puissai-je trespasser!

 

 

 

                                                                     Marie, anyone who tried re-arranging your name

                                                                     Would find “Aimer” [‘to love’]; so love me, Marie,

                                                                     Since your fair name makes you ready to love,

                                                                     You should give your youth to love.

 

                                                                     If you please to appoint me your love for ever,

                                                                     Together we shall take the pleasures of life,

                                                                     With a love loved in return, and never will any other desire

                                                                     Be able to turn my heart away from yours.

 

                                                                     You really must love something in this world;

                                                                     Whoever loves not at all, offers himself the goal of

                                                                     The life of a Scythian, and wants to spend his days

 

                                                                     Without tasting the sweetest sweet of all.

                                                                     Ah, is there anything that is sweet without Love? Oh, at the moment

                                                                     When I cease loving, may I die!

 

 

 

As if two substantially different poems wasn’t enough, Anthoine de Bertrand, in his 1576 collection of ‘Les Amours de Ronsard’, set the following version to music:

 

 

Marie, qui voudroit vostre beau nom tourner,

Il trouveroit Aimer: aimez-moi donc, Marie,

Faites cela vers moi dont vostre nom vous prie,

Vostre amour ne se peut en meilleur lieu donner:

 

S’il vous plaist pour jamais un plaisir demener,

Aimez-moi, nous prendrons les plaisirs de la vie,

Penduz l’un l’autre au col, et jamais nulle envie

D’aimer en autre lieu ne nous pourra mener.

 

Si faut il bien aimer au monde quelque chose:

Cellui qui n’aime point, cellui-là se propose

Une vie d’un Scyte; et ses jours veut passer

 

Sans gouster la douceur des douceurs la meilleure.

E, qu’est-il rien de doux sans Venus? las! à l’heure

Que je n’aimeray point puissai-je trépasser!

                                                                                   (Source:  recmusic.org/lieder)

 

 

 

                                                                     Marie, anyone who tried re-arranging your lovely name

                                                                     Would find “Aimer” [‘to love’]; so love me, Marie,

                                                                     Do to me what your name asks of you,

                                                                     Your love cannot be given anywhere better.

 

                                                                     If you please to keep it a pleasure for ever,

                                                                     Love me, we will enjoy the pleasures of life

                                                                     Hanging on each other’s necks, and never will any desire

                                                                     To love elsewhere be able to lead us away.

 

                                                                     After all, you have to love something in this world;

                                                                     Whoever loves not at all offers himself only

                                                                     The life of a Scythian, and wants to spend his days

 

                                                                     Without tasting the sweetest sweet of all.

                                                                     What is there that is sweet without Love? Oh, at the moment

                                                                     When I cease loving, may I die!