Stances de la Fontaine d’Hélène (Helen 2:72b)

Ronsard heads these ‘stanzas on Helen’s fountain’ with the stage-direction “Pour chanter ou reciter à trois personnes“, ‘for singing or reciting by three people’ – though in fact the third (the poet himself) only appears at the very end.

I. Ainsi que ceste eau coule et s’enfuyt parmy l’herbe, Ainsi puisse couler en ceste eau le souci, Que ma belle Maistresse, à mon mal trop superbe, Engrave dans mon cœur sans en avoir mercy.   II. Ainsi que dans ceste eau de l’eau mesme je verse, Ainsi de veine en veine Amour qui m’a blessé, Et qui tout à la fois son carquois me renverse, Un breuvage amoureux dans le cœur m’a versé.   I. Je voulois de ma peine esteindre la memoire : Mais Amour qui avoit en la fontaine beu, Y laissa son brandon, si bien qu’au lieu de boire De l’eau pour l’estancher, je n’ay beu que du feu.   II. Tantost ceste fontaine est froide comme glace, Et tantost elle jette une ardante liqueur. Deux contraires effects je sens quand elle passe, Froide dedans ma bouche, et chaude dans mon cœur.   I. Vous qui refraischissez ces belles fleurs vermeilles, Petits freres ailez, Favones et Zephyrs, Portez de ma Maistresse aux ingrates oreilles, En volant parmy l’air, quelcun de mes souspirs.   II. Vous enfans de l’Aurore, allez baiser ma Dame : Dites luy que je meurs, contez luy ma douleur, Et qu’Amour me transforme en un rocher sans ame, Et non comme Narcisse en une belle fleur.   I. Grenouilles qui jazez quand l’an se renouvelle, Vous Gressets qui servez aux charmes, comme on dit, Criez en autre part vostre antique querelle : Ce lieu sacré vous soit à jamais interdit.   II. Philomele en Avril ses plaintes y jargonne, Et tes bords sans chansons ne se puissent trouver : L’Arondelle l’Esté, le Ramier en Automne, Le Pinson en tout temps, la Gadille en Hyver.   I. Cesse tes pleurs, Hercule, et laisse ta Mysie, Tes pieds de trop courir sont ja foibles et las : Icy les Nymphes ont leur demeure choisie, Icy sont tes Amours, icy est ton Hylas.   II. Que ne suis-je ravy comme l’enfant Argive ? Pour revencher ma mort, je ne voudrois sinon Que le bord, le gravois, les herbes et la rive Fussent tousjours nommez d’Helene, et de mon nom !   I. Dryades, qui vivez sous les escorces sainctes, Venez et tesmoignez combien de fois le jour Ay-je troublé vos bois par le cry de mes plaintes, N’ayant autre plaisir qu’à souspirer d’Amour ?   II. Echo, fille de l’Air, hostesse solitaire Des rochers, où souvent tu me vois retirer, Dy quantes fois le jour lamentant ma misere, T’ay-je fait souspirer en m’oyant souspirer ?   I. Ny Cannes ny Roseaux ne bordent ton rivage, Mais le gay Poliot, des bergeres amy : Tousjours au chaud du jour le Dieu de ce bocage, Appuyé sur sa fleute, y puisse estre endormy.   II. Fontaine à tout jamais ta source soit pavée, Non de menus gravois de mousses ny d’herbis : Mais bien de mainte Perle à bouillons enlevée, De Diamans, Saphirs, Turquoises et Rubis.   I. Le Pasteur en tes eaux nulle branche ne jette, Le Bouc de son ergot ne te puisse fouler : Ains comme un beau Crystal, tousjours tranquille et nette, Puissees-tu par les fleurs eternelle couler.   II. Les Nymphes de ces eaux et les Hamadryades, Que l’amoureux Satyre entre les bois poursuit, Se tenans main à main, de sauts et de gambades, Aux rayons du Croissant y dansent toute nuit.   I. Si j’estois un grand Prince, un superbe edifice Je voudrois te bastir, où je ferois fumer Tous les ans à ta feste autels et sacrifice, Te nommant pour jamais la Fontaine d’aimer.   II. Il ne faut plus aller en la forest d’Ardeine Chercher l’eau, dont Regnaut estoit si desireux : Celuy qui boit à jeun trois fois ceste fonteine, Soit passant ou voisin il devient amoureux.   I. Lune qui as ta robbe en rayons estoillée, Garde ceste fonteine aux jours les plus ardans : Defen-la pour jamais de chaud et de gelée, Remply-la de rosée, et te mire dedans.   II. Advienne apres mille ans qu’un Pastoureau desgoise Mes amours, et qu’il conte aux Nymphes d’icy pres, Qu’un Vandomois mourut pour une Saintongeoise, Et qu’encores son ame erre entre ces forests.   Le Poete. Garsons ne chantez plus, ja Vesper nous commande De serrer nos troupeaux, les Loups sont ja dehors. Demain à la frescheur avec une autre bande Nous reviendrons danser à l’entour de tes bords.   Fontaine, ce-pendant de ceste tasse pleine Reçoy ce vin sacré que je renverse en toy : Sois ditte pour jamais la Fontaine d’Heleine, Et conserve en tes eaux mes amours et ma foy.

I. Just as this water flows and runs off amidst the grass, So let flow in this water the care Which my fair mistress, to my too magnificent harm, Engraves in my heart without any mercy.   II Just as in this water I pour some of the same water, So from vein to vein Love who has hurt me, And who all at once overturns his quiver for me, Has poured into my heart his drink of love.   I I wished to extinguish the memory of my pain: But Love who had drunk in the fountain Left there his brand so firmly that, instead of drinking Of the water to quench it, I have drunk only fire.   II Sometimes this fountain is cold as ice, And sometimes it throws up a burning liquid: Two opposite effects I feel as it passes, Cold within my mouth, and warm in my heart.   I You who refresh these fair crimson flowers, Little winged brothers, Fauns and Zephyrs, Bear to the ungrateful ears of my mistress, Flying through the air, some one of my sighs.   II You children of the Dawn, go and kiss my lady: Tell her that I am dying, recount my sadness to her, And how Love is transforming me into a soul-less rock, Not, like Narcissus, into a fair flower.   I You frogs who gossip as the year renews itself, You tree-frogs who act as charms, as they say, Shout your ancient quarrels in some other place: May this sacred place be forbidden to you forever.   II Let Philomela [the nightingale] in April chatter her lament there, Let your banks never be found song-less: The swallow in summer, the pigeon in autumn, The chaffinch at all times, the robin in winter.   I Stop weeping, Hercules, leave your Mysia, Your feet from too much running are now week and tired: Here the nymphs have chosen their home, Here are your Loves, here is your Hylas.   II Why am I not in love like the Argive child? To avenge my death, I would wish only That the shore, the gravel, the grass and the banks Should always be named after Helen and my own name!   I Dryads who live beneath the holy bark, Come and bear witness, how many times a day Have I troubled your woods with the cry of my laments, Having no other pleasure than to sign of Love?   II Echo, daughter of the Air, solitary inhabitant Of the rocks, where often you see me retiring, Say how many times a day, lamenting my wretchedness, Have I made you sigh as you see me sigh?   I Neither sticks nor reeds border your banks, But rather the gay iris, friend of shepherdesses; Always in the heat of the day the god of this wood, Playing on his flute, can sleep there.   II Fountain, may your spring be forever paved Not with small gravel-stones from the foaming water, nor grass; But rather with many a pearl lifted by the waves, With diamonds, sapphires, turquoises and rubies.   I May the shepherd throw no branches in your waters, May the buck not be able to tread in you with his spurs; So, like a fine crystal, always calm and clear, May you be able to flow eternal among the flowers.   II The Nymphs of these waters and the Hamadryads Whom the amorous Satyr pursues in the woods, Holding one another’s hands, in leaps and gambols Dance all night in the rays of the crescent moon.   I If I were a great prince, I would want to build you A proud edifice, where I would make every year Altars and sacrifices smoke at your festival, Naming you forever the Fountain of Love.   II We need no longer go to the forest of Ardenne To seek the water for which Rinaldo was so eager: He who when young drinks thrice from this fountain, Be he passer-by or neighbour, will fall in love.   I O moon, who have your robe spangled in moonbeams, Protect this fountain in the hottest days; Defend it forever from heat and ice, Fill it with dew, and admire yourself in it.   II May it happen that, after a thousand years , a shepherd acts out My love-affairs, and recount to the Nymphs nearby How a man of Vendôme died for a lady from Saintonge, And how still his soul wanders in these forests.   The Poet Boys, sing no more, already the Evening Star commands us To draw up our troop, the wolves are now out. Tomorrow in the freshness [of morning], with another band We shall return to dance around your banks.   Fountain, now from this full glass Receive this sacred wine which I pour into you; Be called forever the Fountain of Helen, And preserve in your waters my love and my faithfulness.

 

 

 I find the ‘tone’ of this poem a little hard to read: yes, it is obviously another nature poem, or rather one of those ‘nature filled with myth’ poems, where everything is imbued with the flavour of classical mythology. Yet overall it seems to jar slightly with the surrounding love poems, at least to me.

 

We begin with the familiar lovers’ opposites – pain and happiness together, hot and cold, ice and fire. The ungrateful mistress is invoked (and mythological messengers sent to visit her). But by the end this is a fountain sanctified to Helen, rather than simply reflecting the opposites.

 

The tale of Narcissus is beautifully transformed – Helen’s obduracy makes her lover a hard rock, rather than a soft flower. But then the nature poetry takes over – oddly, at first, with frogs, but then with a large cast of carefully-identified birds appropriate to the seasons. Then suddenly Hercules is invoked (he is presumably also the ‘Argive child’, being a native of that city), and we’re back to the spurned lover – though quite why his death should be memorialised by naming the fountain after Helen is not obvious.

 

Echo, of course, is also known for laments: but then the context suddenly shifts to the sanctification of the fountain – its rocks replaced by precious jewels, its waters undisturbed by sticks or animals. The reference to Rinaldo (Regnaut in the French version) recalls the entire plot of ‘Orlando furioso’, which opens with Rinaldo drinking from an enchanted fountain and falling in love with Angelica, and ends with the spell lifted by drinking from another magic fountain. (As Richelet explains, ‘Ariosto in his first canto says that in this forest there are two fountains so different in effect that whoever drinks from the one falls in love, and from the other loses his love’.) And then the heavens are called on to protect the newly-sanctified spring, before the poet sacrifices wine as a sign of its holiness.

 

Something of a developing train of thought, then …

 

Gilbert Gadoffre makes the point that Ronsard is not like the seventeenth-century poets, ‘mathematicians and logicians’ who structure their poems accordingly; he is a poet of nature, whose poems grow like nature, developing almost in random directions as the moment takes them. I think this is a helpful way to look at this poem and it’s shifting focus. 

 

Worth adding, too, that for Gadoffre this is the high point of French poetry before about 1650: “With this poem he gives us the most miraculously beautiful stanzas before Racine in the French repertoire.”

 

Blanchemain has a number of variants, beginning with the title: “Stances sur la fontaine…” (though it has no impact on the translation). In the first stanza of the third pair, we have “Portez vers ma Maistresse aux ingrates oreilles”, so that instead of carrying sighs ‘to the ungrateful ears of my mistress’ they are to be carried ‘to my mistress with her ungrateful ears’. In the second stanza of the next pair, “Et ses bords …” seems odd: Helen’s fountain has been ‘you’ so far, so whose are ‘her banks’? Presumably still the same fountain?

 

No such problem at the start of the pair of stanzas featuring Rinaldo: “Si j’estois grand monarque …”, a ‘great monarch’ instead of a great prince. And then in the second of these stanzas, “Celuy qui boit à jeun trois fois à la fonteine”, ‘He who when young drinks thrice at the fountain’. 

 

 

 

 

Elégie à Janet, Peintre du Roy – Elegy, to Janet the King’s artist (Am. 1:228b)

Today, nearly 200 lines of charming verse – twice!

Pein-moy, Janet, pein-moy je te supplie Sur ce tableau les beautez de m’amie De la façon que je te les diray. Comme importun je ne te suppliray D’un art menteur quelque faveur luy faire. Il suffit bien si tu la sçais portraire Telle qu’elle est, sans vouloir desguiser Son naturel pour la favoriser : Car la faveur n’est bonne que pour celles Qui se font peindre, et qui ne sont pas belles.   Fay-luy premier les cheveux ondelez, Serrez, retors, recrespez, annelez, Qui de couleur le cedre representent : Ou les allonge, et que libres ils sentent Dans le tableau, si par art tu le peux, La mesme odeur de ses propres cheveux : Car ses cheveux comme fleurettes sentent, Quand les Zephyrs au printemps les éventent.   Que son beau front ne soit entre-fendu De nul sillon en profond estendu, Mais qu’il soit tel qu’est l’eau de la marine, Quand tant soit peu le vent ne la mutine, Et que gisante en son lict elle dort, Calmant ses flots sillez d’un somne mort.   Tout au milieu par la gréve descende Un beau ruby, de qui l’esclat s’espande Par le tableau, ainsi qu’on voit de nuit Briller les raiz de la Lune, qui luit Dessus la neige au fond d’un val coulée, De trace d’homme encore non foulée.   Apres fay luy son beau sourcy voutis D’Ebene noir, et que son ply tortis Semble un Croissant, qui monstre par la nuë Au premier mois sa vouture cornuë : Ou si jamais tu as veu l’arc d’Amour, Pren le portrait dessus le demy-tour De sa courbure à demy-cercle close : Car l’arc d’Amour et luy n’est qu’une chose.   Mais las! Janet, helas je ne sçay pas Par quel moyen, ny comment tu peindras (Voire eusses-tu l’artifice d’Apelle) De ses beaux yeux la grace naturelle, Qui font vergongne aux estoilles des Cieux. Que l’un soit doux, l’autre soit furieux, Que l’un de Mars, l’autre de Venus tienne : Que du benin toute esperance vienne, Et du cruel vienne tout desespoir : L’un soit piteux et larmoyant à voir, Comme celuy d’Ariadne laissée Aux bords de Die, alors que l’insensee Pres de la mer, de pleurs se consommoit, Et son Thesée en vain elle nommoit : L’autre soit gay, comme il est bien croyable Que l’eut jadis Penelope louable Quand elle vit son mary retourné, Ayant vingt ans loing d’elle sejourné.   Apres fay luy sa rondelette oreille Petite, unie, entre blanche et vermeille, Qui sous le voile apparoisse à l’egal Que fait un lis enclos dans un crystal, Ou tout ainsi qu’apparoist une rose Tout fraischement dedans un verre enclose.   Mais pour neant tu aurois fait si beau Tout l’ornement de ton riche tableau, Si tu n’avois de la lineature De son beau nez bien portrait la peinture. Pein-le moy donc ny court, ny aquilin, Poli, traitis, où l’envieux malin Quand il voudroit n’y sçauroit que reprendre, Tant proprement tu le feras descendre Parmi la face, ainsi comme descend Dans une plaine un petit mont qui pend.   Apres au vif pein moy sa belle joüe Pareille au teint de la rose qui noüe Dessus du laict, ou au teint blanchissant Du lis qui baise un œillet rougissant.   Dans le milieu portrais une fossette, Fossette, non, mais d’Amour la cachette, D’où ce garçon de sa petite main Lasche cent traits et jamais un en vain, Que par les yeux droit au cœur il ne touche.   Helas ! Janet, pour bien peindre sa bouche, A peine Homere en ses vers te diroit Quel vermillon egaler la pourroit : Car pour la peindre ainsi qu’elle merite, Peindre il faudroit celle d’une Charite. Pein-la moy doncq, qu’elle semble parler, Ores sou-rire, ores embasmer l’air De ne sçay quelle ambrosienne haleine : Mais par sur tout fay qu’elle semble pleine De la douceur de persuasion. Tout à l’entour attache un milion De ris, d’attraits, de jeux, de courtoisies, Et que deux rangs de perlettes choisies D’un ordre egal en la place des dents Bien poliment soyent arrangez dedans.   Pein tout autour une lévre bessonne, Qui d’elle-mesme en s’elevant semonne D’estre baisée, ayant le teint pareil Ou de la rose, ou du coural vermeil : Elle flambante au Printemps sur l’espine, Luy rougissant au fond de la marine.   Pein son menton au milieu fosselu, Et que le bout en rondeur pommelu Soit tout ainsi que lon voit apparoistre Le bout d’un coin qui ja commence à croistre.   Plus blanc que laict caillé dessus le jonc Pein luy le col, mais pein-le un petit long, Gresle et charnu, et sa gorge doüillette Comme le col soit un petit longuette.   Apres fay luy par un juste compas, Et de Junon les coudes et les bras, Et les beaux doigts de Minerve, et encore La main egale à celle de l’Aurore.   Je ne sçay plus, mon Janet, où j’en suis : Je suis confus et muet : je ne puis Comme j’ay fait, te declarer le reste De ses beautez qui ne m’est manifeste : Las ! car jamais tant de faveurs je n’u, Que d’avoir veu ses beaux tetins à nu. Mais si lon peut juger par conjecture, Persuadé de raisons je m’asseure Que la beauté qui ne s’apparoit, doit Estre semblable à celle que lon voit. Donque pein-la, et qu’elle me soit faite Parfaite autant comme l’autre est parfaite.   Ainsi qu’en bosse esleve moy son sein Net, blanc, poli, large, entre-ouvert et plein, Dedans lequel mille rameuses veines De rouge sang tressaillent toutes pleines.   Puis, quand au vif tu auras descouvers Dessous la peau les muscles et les ners, Enfle au dessus deux pommes nouvelettes, Comme l’on void deux pommes verdelettes D’un orenger, qui encores du tout Ne font qu’à l’heure à se rougir au bout.   Tout au plus haut des espaules marbrines, Pein le sejour des Charites divines, Et que l’Amour sans cesse voletant Tousjours les couve et les aille esventant, Pensant voler avec le Jeu son frere De branche en branche és vergers de Cythere.   Un peu plus bas en miroir arrondi, Tout potelé, grasselet, rebondi, Comme celuy de Venus, pein son ventre : Pein son nombril ainsi qu’un petit centre, Le fond duquel paroisse plus vermeil Qu’un bel œillet favoris du Soleil.   Qu’atten’s-tu plus ? portray moy l’autre chose Qui est si belle, et que dire je n’ose, Et dont l’espoir impatient me poind : Mais je te pry, ne me l’ombrage point, Si ce n’estoit d’un voile fait de soye Clair et subtil, à fin qu’on l’entre-voye.   Ses cuisses soyent comme faites au Tour A pleine chair, rondes tout à l’entour, Ainsi qu’un Terme arrondi d’artifice Qui soustient ferme un royal edifice.   Comme deux monts enleve ses genous, Douillets, charnus, ronds, delicats et mous, Dessous lesquels fay luy la gréve pleine, Telle que l’ont les vierges de Lacene, Quand pres d’Eurote en s’accrochant des bras Luttent ensemble et se jettent à bas : Ou bien chassant à meutes decouplees Quelque vieil cerf és forests Amyclees.   Puis pour la fin portray-luy de Thetis Les pieds estroits, et les talons petis.   Ha, je la voy ! elle est presque portraite : Encore un trait, encore un, elle est faite. Leve tes mains, hà mon Dieu, je la voy ! Bien peu s’en faut qu’elle ne parle à moy.

Paint me, Janet, paint me I pray In this picture the beauties of my beloved In the manner I’ll tell you them. I shall not ask as a beggar That you do her any favours with lying art. It will be enough if you can portray her Just as she is, without trying to disguise Her natural looks to favour her : For favour is no good but for those Who have themselves painted but are not fair.   First, make her hair in waves, Tied up, swept back, curled in ringlets, Which have the colour of cedar ; Or make it long and free, scented In the picture, if you can do it with art, With the same scent her own hair has ; For her hair smells like flowers When the spring Zephyrs fan them.   Make sure her fair brow is not lined By any furrow long-extended, But that it looks like the waters of the sea When the wind does not disturb them in the slightest, And when it sleeps, lying on its bed, Calming its waves sunk in deepest sleep.   Down the middle of this strand make descend A fair ruby, whose brightness should spread Throughout the picture, as at night you see Shining the rays of the moon, spreading light Over the snow in the deeps of a sunken valley Still untrodden by the foot of man.   Then make her fair arched eyebrow Of black ebony, so that its curve Resembles a crescent moon, showing through cloud Its horned arc at the beginning of the month ; Or, if you have ever seen Love’s bow, Use its image above, the half-turn Of its curve makig a half-circle ; For Love’s bow and herself are but one thing.   But ah, Janet, ah ! I do not know In what way or how you will paint (Even if you had the skill of Apelles) The natural grace of her lovely eyes Which make the stars of Heaven ashamed. Make one sweet, the other furious, One having something of Mars, the other of Venus : That from the kind one, every hope should come, And from the cruel one, every despair ; Let one be pitiful to see, in tears, Like that of Ariadne abandoned On the shores of Dia, while maddened She was consumed in tears beside the sea And called on her Theseus in vain ; Let the other be happy, as we can believe The praiseworthy Penelope was formerly When she saw her husband returned After staying for twenty years far from her.   Next, make her rounded ear, Small, elegant, between white and pink, Which should appear beneath its veil exactly As a lily does, enclosed in crystal, Or just a a rose would appear, Completely fresh, enclosed in a vase.   But you would have painted so well Every ornament of your rich picture, for nothing If you had not well-depicted the line Of her fair nose. Paint me it, then, not short nor aquiline, Elegant and well-made, so the wicked or envious Even if he wanted could not reprove, So exactly you’ll have made it descend In the midst of her face, just as descends Over a plain a little raised mound.   Then as in life paint me her fair cheek, Equal to the tint of a rose which swims Upon milk, or to the white tint Of the lily kissing a blushing pink.   In the middle,portray a small dimple – No not a dimple, but the hiding-place of Love From which that boy with his little hand Launches a hundred arrows and never one in vain Which does not through the eyes go straight to the heart.   Ah, Janet ! to paint her mouth well Homer himself in his verse could barely say What crimson could equal it ; For to paint it as it deserves You would need to paint a Grace’s. So, paint me it as she seems to be talking, Now smiling, now perfuming the air With some kind of ambrosial breath ; But above all make her appear full Of the sweetness of persuasion. All around, attach a million Smiles, attractiveness, jokes, courtesies ; And let there be two rows of choice little pearls In a neat line, in place of teeth, Elegantly arrayed within.   Paint all round them those twin lips Which, rising up, themselves invite Being kissed, their colour equal To a rose’s or crimson coral’s ; The one flaming in spring on its thorn, The other reddening at the bottom of the sea.   Paint her chin dimpled in the middle And make the tip bud into roundness Just as if we were seeing appear The tip of a quince just beginning to grow.   Whiter than clotted cream on rushes Paint her neck, but paint it a little long, Slender but plump, and her soft throat Like her neck should be a little long.   Then make her, accurately drawn, The arms and elbows of Juno And the lovely fingers of Minerva, and too Hands equal to the Dawn’s.   I no longer know, Janet, where I am : I am confused, dumb : I cannot As I have done tell you the rest Of her beauties which have not been shown me. Ah, I have never had the good favour To have seen her fair breasts naked, But if we may judge by conjecture With good reason I am convinced That the beauty which is unseen should Be like that we see. So paint her, and let her be made Perfect just as the lady herself is perfect.   As if embossed, raise up her breast Clear, white, elegant, wide, half-uncovered, full, Within which a thousand branchy veins Filled with red blood quiver.   Then when as in life you have revealed Beneath the skin the muscles and nerves, Make swell on top two fresh apples, Just as you night see two green apples In an orchard, which still and all Just grow redder by the moment at the tip.   Right above her marble shoulders Paint the divine Graces resting, And let Love ceaselessly flying around Gaze on them always and keep fanning them, Thinking he’s flying with Jest, his brother, From branch to branch in the orchards of Cythera.   A little below, rounded like a mirror, All rounded, plump and shapely, Like that of Venus, paint her belly ; Paint its button like a little target The depths of which should appear more crimson Than the lovely carnation, the Sun’s favourite.   What are you waiting for ? Paint me that other part Which is so lovely, and which I dare not mention, And impatient hope for which pricks me : But I beg you, do not cover it over Unless it be with a veil made of silk, Clear and fine, that you can party see through.   Her thighs should be made like towers Full-fleshed, rounded all about, Just as a column artfully rounded Which firmly holds up a royal building.   Like two hills raise up her knees Downy, plump, round, delicate and soft ; Beneath them make her calves full As were those of the maids of Laconia When near Eurotas, gripping their arms They fought together and threw one another down ; Or indeed hunting with unleashed hounds Some old stag in the forests of Amyclae.   Then, finally, portray her with Thetis’ Narrow feet and small toes.   Ha, I see her ! she is almost portayed : But one stroke more, justl one and she is done. Raise your hands, ah my god, I see her ! She all but speaks to me.

 

We’ve met the painter Janet – a.k.a. François Clouet, known as Janet (‘Johnny’) as his father had been – before.

 

At the end of book 1, in two long Elegies, Ronsard puts on a firework display of classical names and references. But the two are done very differently: the Elegy to Muret (learned classicist and poet) is full of very obscure and learned references to Achilles; this poem (to Clouet) is full of readily-accessible classical references which point to well-known representations in art and (sometimes) literature, appropriate to a non-specialist like Clouet – and us! Let’s skim through them:

 – Zephyrs, that is to say just ‘gentle breezes’

 – Apelles is the ‘type’ of a great painter

 – Mars and Venus simply personify war and love

 – Ariadne & Theseus on Dia, another well-known image of the lady abandoned as her lover sails into the rising sun

 – Penelope and her husband Odysseus, famously separated for 20 years by his involvement in the Trojan War (Iliad) and then his adventures on the way home (Odyssey)

 – Homer, the ‘type’ of a great poet for his Iliad and Odyssey

 – the Graces, simply personifying ‘grace’ here

 – Juno and Minerva, ‘types’ for beauty because of their competition with Venus for the title of most beautiful in the ‘Judgement of Paris’

 – Dawn’s hands, because Homer always refers to ‘rosy-fingered Dawn’

 – Venus was born (and sometimes lived in) Cythera, with her son Cupid or Love; his brother is usually Anteros, the go of requited (as opposed to unrequited) love – not a god of games or jokes, as Ronsard seems to imply here. But clearly games and happiness in love are what is really going on here

 – the ‘maids of Laconia’ are those hardy Spartan lasses who used to do fighting and hunting like the Spartan boys. The city of Amyclae and the river Eurotas are in Sparta (the Peloponnese)

 – Thetis, a sea-goddess, leading Nereid and mother of Achilles, was surnamed ‘Silver-footed’ in classical times, and her feet are regularly used as a ‘type’ of beauty.

 

Overall, a lovely easy-going poem: Ronsard of course uses the form of the body to create expectation through the poem – we know he’s leading up to the breasts, and later the ‘part he dares not mention’, and that in itself gives the poem a certain sense of rise and fall.

 

The earlier version of course differs in detail, but also includes a whole extra ‘paragraph’ early in the description, later removed:

 

Pein-moy, Janet, pein-moy je te supplie Sur ce tableau les beautez de m’amie De la façon que je te les diray. Comme importun je ne te suppliray D’un art menteur quelque faveur luy faire. Il suffit bien si tu la sçais portraire Telle qu’elle est, sans vouloir desguiser Son naturel pour la favoriser : Car la faveur n’est bonne que pour celles Qui se font peindre, et qui ne sont pas belles.   Fay-luy premier les cheveux ondelez, Nouez, retors, recrespez, annelez, Qui de couleur le cedre representent : Ou les allonge, et que libres ils sentent Dans le tableau, si par art tu le peux, La mesme odeur de ses propres cheveux : Car ses cheveux comme fleurettes sentent, Quand les Zephyrs au printemps les éventent.   [Fais-lui le front en bosse revoûté, Sur lequel soient d’un et d’autre côté Peints gravement, sur trois sièges d’ivoire A majesté, la vergogne at la gloire.]   Que son beau front ne soit entre-fendu De nul sillon en profond estendu, Mais qu’il soit tel qu’est la calme marine, Quand tant soit peu le vent ne la mutine, Et que gisante en son lict elle dort, Calmant ses flots sillez d’un somne mort.   Tout au milieu par la gréve descende Un beau ruby, de qui l’esclat s’espande Par le tableau, ainsi qu’on voit de nuit Briller les raiz de la Lune, qui luit Dessus la neige au fond d’un val coulée, De trace d’homme encore non foulée.   Apres fay luy son beau sourcy voutis D’Ebene noir, et que son ply tortis Semble un Croissant, qui monstre par la nuë Au premier mois sa vouture cornuë : Ou si jamais tu as veu l’arc d’Amour, Pren le portrait dessus le demy-tour De sa courbure à demy-cercle close : Car l’arc d’Amour et luy n’est qu’une chose.   Mais las! mon Dieu, mon Dieu, je ne sçay pas Par quel moyen, ny comment tu peindras (Voire eusses-tu l’artifice d’Apelle) De ses beaux yeux la grace naturelle, Qui font vergongne aux estoilles des Cieux. Que l’un soit doux, l’autre soit furieux, Que l’un de Mars, l’autre de Venus tienne : Que du benin toute esperance vienne, Et du cruel vienne tout desespoir : Ou que l’un soit pitoyable a le voir, Comme celuy d’Ariadne laissée Aux bords de Die, alors que l’insensee Voyant la mer, de pleurs se consommoit, Et son Thesée en vain elle nommoit : L’autre soit gay, comme il est bien croyable Que l’eut jadis Penelope louable Quand elle vit son mary retourné, Ayant vingt ans loing d’elle sejourné.   Apres fay luy sa rondelette oreille Petite, unie, entre blanche et vermeille, Qui sous le voile apparoisse à l’egal Que fait un lis enclos dans un crystal, Ou tout ainsi qu’apparoist une rose Tout fraischement dedans un verre enclose.   Mais pour neant tu aurois fait si beau Tout l’ornement de ton riche tableau, Si tu n’avois de la lineature De son beau nez bien portrait la peinture. Pein-le moy donc gresle, long, aquilin, Poli, traitis, où l’envieux malin Quand il voudroit n’y sçauroit que reprendre, Tant proprement tu le feras descendre Parmi la face, ainsi comme descend Dans une plaine un petit mont qui pend.   Apres au vif pein moy sa belle joüe Pareille au teint de la rose qui noüe Dessus du laict, ou au teint blanchissant Du lis qui baise un œillet rougissant.   Dans le milieu portrais une fossette, Fossette, non, mais d’Amour la cachette, D’où ce garçon de sa petite main Lasche cent traits et jamais un en vain, Que par les yeux droit au cœur il ne touche.   Helas ! Janet, pour bien peindre sa bouche, A peine Homere en ses vers te diroit Quel vermillon egaler la pourroit : Car pour la peindre ainsi qu’elle merite, Peindre il faudroit celle d’une Charite. Pein-la moy doncq, qu’elle semble parler, Ores sou-rire, ores embasmer l’air De ne sçay quelle ambrosienne haleine : Mais par sur tout fay qu’elle semble pleine De la douceur de persuasion. Tout à l’entour attache un milion De ris, d’attraits, de jeux, de courtoisies, Et que deux rangs de perlettes choisies D’un ordre egal en la place des dents Bien poliment soyent arrangez dedans.   Pein tout autour une lévre bessonne, Qui d’elle-mesme en s’elevant semonne D’estre baisée, ayant le teint pareil Ou de la rose, ou du coural vermeil : Elle flambante au Printemps sur l’espine, Luy rougissant au fond de la marine.   Pein son menton au milieu fosselu, Et que le bout en rondeur pommelu Soit tout ainsi que lon voit apparoistre Le bout d’un coin qui ja commence à croistre.   Plus blanc que laict caillé dessus le jonc Pein luy le col, mais pein-le un petit long, Gresle et charnu, et sa gorge doüillette Comme le col soit un petit longuette.   Apres fay luy par un juste compas, Et de Junon les coudes et les bras, Et les beaux doigts de Minerve, et encore La main pareille à celle de l’Aurore.   Je ne sçay plus, mon Janet, où j’en suis : Je suis confus et muet : je ne puis Comme j’ay fait, te declarer le reste De ses beautez qui ne m’est manifeste : Las ! car jamais tant de faveurs je n’eu, Que d’avoir veu ses beaux tetins à nu. Mais si l’on peut juger par conjecture, Persuadé de raisons je m’asseure Que la beauté qui ne s’apparoit, doit Estre semblable à celle que lon voit. Donque pein-la, et qu’elle me soit faite Parfaite autant comme l’autre est parfaite.   Ainsi qu’en bosse esleve moy son sein Net, blanc, poli, large, profond et plein, Dedans lequel mille rameuses veines De rouge sang tressaillent toutes pleines.   Puis, quand au vif tu auras descouvers Dessous la peau les muscles et les ners, Enfle au dessus deux pommes nouvelettes, Comme l’on void deux pommes verdelettes D’un orenger, qui encores du tout Ne font alors que se rougir au bout.   Tout au plus haut des espaules marbrines, Pein le sejour des Charites divines, Et que l’Amour sans cesse voletant Tousjours les couve et les aille esventant, Pensant voler avec le Jeu son frere De branche en branche és vergers de Cythere.   Un peu plus bas en miroir arrondi, Tout potelé, grasselet, rebondi, Comme celuy de Venus, pein son ventre : Pein son nombril ainsi qu’un petit centre, Le fond duquel paroisse plus vermeil Qu’un bel œillet entr’ouvert au Soleil.   Qu’atten’s-tu plus ? portray moy l’autre chose Qui est si belle, et que dire je n’ose, Et dont l’espoir impatient me poind : Mais je te pry, ne me l’ombrage point, Si ce n’estoit d’un voile fait de soye Clair et subtil, à fin qu’on l’entre-voye.   Ses cuisses soyent comme faites au Tour En grelissant, rondes tout à l’entour, Ainsi qu’un Terme arrondi d’artifice Qui soustient ferme un royal edifice.   Comme deux monts enleve ses genous, Douillets, charnus, ronds, delicats et mous, Dessous lesquels fay luy la gréve pleine, Telle que l’ont les vierges de Lacene, Quand pres d’Eurote en s’accrochant des bras Luttent ensemble et se jettent à bas : Ou bien chassant à meutes decouplees Quelque vieil cerf és forests Amyclees.   Puis pour la fin portray-luy de Thetis Les pieds estroits, et les talons petis.   Ha, je la voy ! elle est presque portraite : Encore un trait, encore un, elle est faite. Leve tes mains, hà mon Dieu, je la voy ! Bien peu s’en faut qu’elle ne parle à moy.

Paint me, Janet, paint me I pray In this picture the beauties of my beloved In the manner I’ll tell you them. I shall not ask as a beggar That you do her any favours with lying art. It will be enough if you can portray her Just as she is, without trying to disguise Her natural looks to favour her : For favour is no good but for those Who have themselves painted but are not fair.   First, make her hair in waves, Knotted up, swept back, curled in ringlets, Which have the colour of cedar ; Or make it long and free, scented In the picture, if you can do it with art, With the same scent her own hair has ; For her hair smells like flowers When the spring Zephyrs fan them.   [Make her brow projecting in an arc On which should be, on each side, Painted gravely modesty and glory In majesty on three ivory thrones.   Make sure her fair brow is not lined By any furrow long-extended, But that it looks like the calm sea When the wind does not disturb them in the slightest, And when it sleeps, lying on its bed, Calming its waves sunk in deepest sleep.   Down the middle of this strand make descend A fair ruby, whose brightness should spread Throughout the picture, as at night you see Shining the rays of the moon, spreading light Over the snow in the deeps of a sunken valley Still untrodden by the foot of man.   Then make her fair arched eyebrow Of black ebony, so that its curve Resembles a crescent moon, showing through cloud Its horned arc at the beginning of the month ; Or, if you have ever seen Love’s bow, Use its image above, the half-turn Of its curve makig a half-circle ; For Love’s bow and herself are but one thing.   But ah, my God, my God, I do not know In what way or how you will paint (Even if you had the skill of Apelles) The natural grace of her lovely eyes Which make the stars of Heaven ashamed. Make one sweet, the other furious, One having something of Mars, the other of Venus : That from the kind one, every hope should come, And from the cruel one, every despair ; Or, let one be pitiful to see, Like that of Ariadne abandoned On the shores of Dia, while maddened She was consumed in tears watching the sea And called on her Theseus in vain ; Let the other be happy, as we can believe The praiseworthy Penelope was formerly When she saw her husband returned After staying for twenty years far from her.   Next, make her rounded ear, Small, elegant, between white and pink, Which should appear beneath its veil exactly As a lily does, enclosed in crystal, Or just a a rose would appear, Completely fresh, enclosed in a vase.   But you would have painted so well Every ornament of your rich picture, for nothing If you had not well-depicted the line Of her fair nose. Paint me it, then, slender, long, aquiline, Elegant and well-made, so the wicked or envious Even if he wanted could not reprove, So exactly you’ll have made it descend In the midst of her face, just as descends Over a plain a little raised mound.   Then as in life paint me her fair cheek, Equal to the tint of a rose which swims Upon milk, or to the white tint Of the lily kissing a blushing pink.   In the middle,portray a small dimple – No not a dimple, but the hiding-place of Love From which that boy with his little hand Launches a hundred arrows and never one in vain Which does not through the eyes go straight to the heart.   Ah, Janet ! to paint her mouth well Homer himself in his vere could barely say What crimson could equal it ; For to paint it as it deserves You would need to paint a Grace’s. So, paint me it as she seems to be talking, Now smiling, now perfuming the air With some kind of ambrosial breath ; But above all make her appear full Of the sweetness of persuasion. All around, attach a million Smiles, attractiveness, jokes, courtesies ; And let there be two rows of choice little pearls In a neat line, in place of teeth, Elegantly arrayed within.   Paint all round them those twin lips Which, rising up, themselves invite Being kissed, their colour equal To a rose’s or crimson coral’s ; The one flaming in spring on its thorn, The other reddening at the bottom of the sea.   Paint her chin dimpled in the middle And make the tip bud into roundness Just as if we were seeing appear The tip of a quince just beginning to grow.   Whiter than clotted cream on rushes Paint her neck, but paint it a little long, Slender but plump, and her soft throat Like her neck should be a little long.   Then make her, accurately drawn, The arms and elbows of Juno And the lovely fingers of Minerva, and too Hands like the Dawn’s.   I no longer know, Janet, where I am : I am confused, dumb : I cannot As I have done tell you the rest Of her beauties which have not been shown me. Ah, I have never had the good favour To have seen her fair breasts naked, But if we may judge by conjecture With good reason I am convinced That the beauty which is unseen should Be like that we see. So paint her, and let her be made Perfect just as the lady herself is perfect.   As if embossed, raise up her breast Clear, white, elegant, wide, deep, full, Within which a thousand branchy veins Filled with red blood quiver.   Then when as in life you have revealed Beneath the skin the muscles and nerves, Make swell on top two fresh apples, Just as you night see two green apples In an orchard, which still and all Just grow redder at the tip.   Right above her marble shoulders Paint the divine Graces resting, And let Love ceaselessly flying around Gaze on them always and keep fanning them, Thinking he’s flying with Jest, his brother, From branch to branch in the orchards of Cythera.   A little below, rounded like a mirror, All rounded, plump and shapely, Like that of Venus, paint her belly ; Paint its button like a little target The depths of which should appear more crimson Than the lovely carnation, half-open to the Sun.   What are you waiting for ? Paint me that other part Which is so lovely, and which I dare not mention, And impatient hope for which pricks me : But I beg you, do not cover it over Unless it be with a veil made of silk, Clear and fine, that you can party see through.   Her thighs should be made like towers Becoming slenderer, rounded all about, Just as a column artfully rounded Which firmly holds up a royal building.   Like two hills raise up her knees Downy, plump, round, delicate and soft ; Beneath them make her calves full As were those of the maids of Laconia When near Eurotas, gripping their arms They fought together and threw one another down ; Or indeed hunting with unleashed hounds Some old stag in the forests of Amyclae.   Then, finally, portray her with Thetis’ Narrow feet and small toes.   Ha, I see her ! she is almost portayed : But one stroke more, justl one and she is done. Raise your hands, ah my god, I see her ! She all but speaks to me.

 

 

 

 

Amours 1.227

Le Jeu, la Grace, et les Freres jumeaux,

Suivent ma Dame, et quelque part qu’elle erre,

Dessous ses pieds fait esmailler la terre,

Et des hyvers fait des printemps nouveaux.

 

En sa faveur jargonnent les oiseaux,

Ses vents Eole en sa caverne enserre,

Le doux Zephyre un doux souspir desserre,

Et tous muets s’accoisent les ruisseaux.

 

Les Elemens se remirent en elle,

Nature rit de voir chose si belle :

Je tremble tout, que qulequ’un de ces Dieux

 

Ne passionne apres son beau visage,

Et qu‘en pillant le tresor de nostre âge,

Ne la ravisse et ne l’emporte aux cieux.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            Playfulness, Grace, and the twin brothers

                                                                            Follow my Lady, and wherever she wanders

                                                                            Beneath her feet be-spangle the earth,

                                                                            And make from winter a new spring.

 

                                                                            For her the birds chatter,

                                                                            Aeolus binds the winds in his cavern,

                                                                            Soft Zephyr looses a soft sigh,

                                                                            And quietly the streams rise.

 

                                                                            The Elements behold themselves in her,

                                                                            Nature smiles to see something so fair ;

                                                                            I tremble all over, lest one of these gods

 

                                                                            Should become passionate for her fair face

                                                                            And, looting the treasure of our age,

                                                                            Steal her away and carry her to the heavens.

 

 

Once more Cassandre is accompanied by a cluster of classical virtues. Today we have the Dioscuri – Castor & Pollux, the twins – who here must be invoked in their capacity for bringing favourable weather (though that’s usually for sailors). Aeolus is god of the winds, and Zephyr one of his charges. Characteristically, Ronsard injects himself, and a humorous perspective, into the poem – the earthly lover terrified lest these deified virtues make off with his beloved.

 

The only difference in Blanchemain’s edition is the beginning of line 11 – “Mais, las ! je crain que qulequ’un … ” (‘But oh! I fear lest one …’), which is clearly improved in the later version.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

 

We met Guillaume Cherouvrier a while back in one of Ronsard’s more cynical poems, so it is good to find him here as the recipient of something far less cynical!  You may recall he was a member of the Royal Chapel, hence the reference to ‘his music’ near the end of the poem.

 

Tethys in the middle of the poem is the sun’s ‘hostess’ because she is a sea-nymph, and of course the sun spends his nights in the sea. Adonis, near the beginning, is more usually associated with the blood-red anemone, though it’s obvious why the rose could also fit; he links closely to Venus (who loved him) but not especially to her cult on Mt Eryx in Sicily.  The three lines about the carnation are confusing, not least because you need to know the story to be able to work out who is doing what to whom! The carnation here replaces the hyacinth: Hyacinth was loved by Apollo, but also by Zephyr who, while Apollo and Hyacinth were throwing the discus, blew it off course so that Apollo’s throw killed Hyacinth. So here the meaning is that Apollo made Hyacinth play, Zephyr made Apollo kill him, sacrificing his own love to spite Apollo. (Apollo transformed the blood of Hyacinth into a flower, marked with his tears or the blood depending on the version of the myth and the flower it represents!)

 

I should just mention the ‘double / single’ antithesis in the middle of the poem. Ronsard’s words are “double / simple”, so that each time something is ‘single’ it is also ‘simple’. I have reluctantly chosen ‘single’, so that the antithesis works, but I feel that the other meaning, of simplicity, is really the one that should come through!

 

Let’s have a look at the variant texts offered by Blanchemain: 

 

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.

 

Note that the variant of line 3 is placed by Blanchemain in a footnote and his ‘preferred’ text retains the same line 3 as in Marty-Laveaux. In mid-poem I find the text “dans l’ame” odd – it scans but only painfully, and the revised version (“dedans l’ame”) works so much more easily!

 

 

 

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!

 

 One of Ronsard’s most famous poems – and deservedly so.

 

We met Venus & Anchises recently; also Zephyr the warm west wind.

 

Perhaps surprisingly there are no many variants between versions; though he did remove stanzas here and there as he revised. So in Blanchemain’s version, after the 6th stanza (just before “Je sens en ce mois si beau”) there is an extra stanza:

 

Celuy vrayment est de fer

   Qu’eschaufer

Ne peut sa beauté divine,

Et en lieu d’humaine chair

   Un rocher

Porte au fond de la poitrine

 

 

                                                          He indeed is made of iron

                                                             Whom her divine

                                                          Beauty cannot set afire,

                                                          And in place of human flesh

                                                             A rock

                                                          He carries deep in his breast.

 

 

Then, 4 stanzas later, just before the tall pine:

 

Quand Zephyre meine un bruit

   Qui se suit

Au travers d’une ramée,

Des propos il me souvient

   Que me tient

Seule à seul ma bien aimée.

 

 

                                                          When Zephyr’s sound

                                                             Chases itself

                                                          Through the branches,

                                                          I recall her words

                                                             Which keep me

                                                          Alone with my beloved alone.

 

 

Additionally there are a few minor changes:  in the 3rd stanza Love looses “Feu et dards” (‘His fiery darts’) in the 2nd line; 3 stanzas later, beneath her feet “Croissent mille fleurs écloses” (‘Grow a thousand flowers blooming’); and just before Zephyr (above) he hears the soft voice “Du beau rossignol” (‘Of the fair nightingale’) in the woods.

 

Incidentally, I love the way (in the middle of the poem) he bends the word ‘tetin’ into ‘teton’ to rhyme with ’bouton’, and makes it sound like a form of endearment at the same time!

 

 

 

 

 

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.

 

Once again a beautiful little lyric. And once again the elusive ‘flower of Mars’ appears!

 

Blanchemain offers us a variant of the third stanza’s second half (“Puisses tousjours…” onwards), from 1587:

 

 

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.

 

 

 

Sonnet 124

Ce petit chien, qui ma maistresse suit,

Et qui jappant ne recognoist personne,

Et cest oiseau, qui ses plaintes resonne,

Au mois d’Avril soupirant toute nuit :

 

Et la barriere où quand le chaud s’enfuit,

Madame seule en pensant s’arraisonne,

Et ce jardin où son pouce moissonne

Toutes les fleurs que Zephyre produit :

 

Et ceste dance où la fleche cruelle

M’outre-perça, et la saison nouvelle

Qui tous les ans rafraichist mes douleurs :

 

Et son œillade, et sa parolle sainte,

Et dans le cœur sa grace que j’ay peinte,

Baignent mes yeux de deux ruisseaux de pleurs.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            That little dog which follows my mistress

                                                                            And yaps, recognising no-one,

                                                                            And that bird which sings its sorrows

                                                                            Sighing all night through April;

 

                                                                            And the fence where, when the day’s heat has gone,

                                                                            My Lady muses, alone with her thoughts,

                                                                            And that garden where her fingers gather

                                                                            All the flowers which Zephyr produces;

 

                                                                            And that dance in which the cruel arrow

                                                                            Pierced me through, and the new season

                                                                            Which every year renews my pains afresh;

 

                                                                            And her glance, and her saint-like speech,

                                                                            And her grace whose image I carry in my heart –

                                                                            These bathe my eyes with two streams of tears.

 

 

 

 Unusually for Ronsard, a sonnet in a 13+1 form: he doesn’t often pursue the same thought all the way to the penultimate line, though that is what here makes the sudden switch to tears instead of joy in the last line a decisive dramatic stroke.

 

I ought to confess to paraphrasing line 13 – literally ‘her grace of which I have made a painting in my heart’. (I was tempted by ‘which I have limned in my heart’, but that’s a bit too old-fashioned for Ronsard’s simple term!)

 

Minor variants in Blanchemain: in line 3, the bird repeats Ronsard’s sorrows instead of singing its own – “qui mes plaintes resonne”; and in the final line his tears run further, bathing his breast – “Baignent mon sein de deux ruisseaux”. Lines 4-5 change a little more, though without shifting the focus much:

 

 

Et cette pierre où, quand le chaud s’enfuit,

Seule à part soi pensive s’arraisonne

 

 

                                                                            And that stone where, when the day’s heat has gone,

                                                                            Alone, outside herself, pensive, she muses

 

 

If you can improve on ‘outside herself’ please do – I am stumped for a decent translation at the moment!

 

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 60

Ny voir flamber au poinct du jour les roses,

Ny liz plantez sur le bord d’un ruisseau,

Ny son de luth, ny ramage d’oyseau,

Ny dedans l’or les gemmes bien encloses,

 

Ny des Zephyrs les gorgettes décloses,

Ny sur la mer le ronfler d’un vaisseau,

Ny bal de Nymphe au gazouillis de l’eau,

Ny voir fleurir au printems toutes choses,

 

Ny camp armé de lances hérissé,

Ny antre verd de mousse tapissé,

Ny des forests les cymes qui se pressent,

 

Ny des rochers le silence sacré,

Tant de plaisir ne me donnent qu’un Pré,

Où sans espoir mes esperances paissent.

 

 

 

 

                                                                           Not seeing roses on fire at the break of day,

                                                                           Nor lilies planted on the bank of a stream,

                                                                           Nor the sound of the lute, the warbling of birds,

                                                                           Nor jewels well-set in gold,

 

                                                                           Nor the open throat of the Zephyr [west wind],

                                                                           Nor the creaking of a ship on the sea,

                                                                           Nor the dance of Nymphs to the babbling of the water,

                                                                           Nor seeing everything blossom in spring,

 

                                                                           Nor an armed camp bristling with spears,

                                                                           Nor a cave carpeted with green moss,

                                                                           Nor the close-packed treetops in the forest,

 

                                                                           Nor the sacred silence of the rocks –

                                                                           None give me as much pleasure as that Meadow

                                                                           Where my hopes feed without expectation.

 

 

 

  

Sometimes a poem looks like it came out fully-formed, and sometimes you look at a poem and think ‘the poet clearly set himself a puzzle to work out here!’.  For me this has the look of a poem in which Ronsard wondered how long he could keep going with “Ny…” lines and ‘random’ images, while still making a satisfying poem. As my own little tribute – after all, starting the line the ame each time is easy enough – I’ve added an extra ‘No…’ in line 13…!

 

Just some small changes from Blanchemain’s early version: in line 3 he has “chants de luth” (‘songs of the lute’), changed above so that the ‘s’ is echoed in the second half of the line – an improvement I’d say; and the last 2 “Ny…” lines (11-12) are “Ny les Sylvains qui les Dryades pressent, /Et jà dejà les domptent à leur gré,” (‘Nor the Wood-folk who pursue the Dryads /And quickly overcome them as they wish’). Note that, in this early version, only 11 (not 12) lines begin with “Ny”!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sonnet 23

Ce beau coral, ce marbre qui soupire

Et cet eben ornement du sourci,

Et cet albâtre en voûte racourci,

Et ces saphirs, ce iaspe et ce porphyre :

 

Ces diamans, ces rubis, qu’un Zephyre

Tient animez d’un soupir adouci,

Et ces oeillets et ces roses aussi,

Et ce fin or, où l’or mesme se mire :

 

Me sont dans l’ame en si profond esmoy,

Qu’un autre objet ne se presente à moy,

Sinon, Belleau, leur beauté que j’honore,

 

Et le plaisir qui ne se peut passer

De les songer, penser et repenser,

Songer, penser et repenser encore.

 

 

 

 

                                                                       That fair coral, that breathing marble,

                                                                       And the ebony ornament of her brow,

                                                                       And that alabaster in its brief arch,

                                                                       And those sapphires, that jasper and that porphyry;

 

                                                                       Those diamonds, those rubies, which a Zephyr [breeze]

                                                                       Keeps in motion with its gentle breath;

                                                                       And those pinks and roses too,

                                                                       And that fine gold, at which gold itself wonders;

 

                                                                       These are in my soul in such deep excitement

                                                                       That no other object presents itself to me,

                                                                       Except, Belleau, their beauty which I honour

 

                                                                       And the pleasure which cannot pass

                                                                       Of dreaming of them, considering and reconsidering them

                                                                       Dreaming, considering and reconsidering them again.

 

 

Sonnet 16

Je veux pousser par la France ma peine,

Plustost qu’un trait ne vole au decocher :

Je veux de miel mes oreilles boucher,

Pour n’ouir plus la voix de ma Sereine.

 

Je veux muer mes deux yeux en fonteine,

Mon coeur en feu, ma teste en un rocher,

Mes piés en tronc, pour jamais n’approcher

De sa beauté si fierement humaine.

 

Je veux changer mes pensers en oiseaux,

Mes doux soupirs en Zephyres nouveaux,

Qui par le monde eventeront ma pleinte.

 

Je veux du teint de ma palle couleur,

Aux bords du Loir enfanter une fleur,

Qui de mon nom et de mon mal soit peinte.

 

 

 

                                                                       I want to publish throughout France my trouble,

                                                                       Quicker than an arrow flies from the bow :

                                                                       I want to plug my ears with honey

                                                                       So as no longer to hear the voice of my Siren.

 

                                                                       I want to change my two eyes into a fountain,

                                                                       My heart into fire, my head into a rock,

                                                                       My feet into a tree-stump, so as never to approach

                                                                       Her beauty, so proudly human.

 

                                                                       I want to change my thoughts into birds,

                                                                       My soft sighs into new Zephyrs [breezes],

                                                                       Which will expose my woes throughout the world.

 

                                                                       I want to birth a flower, with the hue

                                                                       Of my pale colour, on the banks of the Loire

                                                                       Which would be painted with my name and my ills.

 

 

Ronsard is thinking of Ovid this time, and offers a meditation on his Metamorphoses. Lines 3-4 recall Odysseus whose men plugged their ears with honey as they sailed past the ship-wrecking Sirens (Homer’s Odyssey book 12). The last tercet recalls Narcissus – or, better, Hyacinth who was changed on his death into a flower marked with the words ‘woe, woe’. (The Zephyrs in the previous line may also recall Hyacinth’s story, since it is Zephyr in one version who is responsible for his death.)

 

Ronsard made only minor changes here:  in the first line another version has “par l’univers” (through the whole universe) instead of just France(!); and there is a slightly clumsier version of line 3, improved on here.