L'homme est vraiment ou de plomb ou de bois,
S'il ne tressaut de crainte et de merveille,
Quand face à face il void ma non-pareille,
Ou quand il oyt les accords de sa voix ;
Ou quand, pensive, aux jours des plus beaux mois,
La voit à part (comme un qui se conseille)
Tracer les prés, et d'une main vermeille
Tirer de rang les fleurettes de choix;
Ou quand, l'esté, lorsque le chaud s'avale,
Au soir, à l'huys il la void qu'elle egale
La soye à l'or d'un pouce ingenieux;
Puis de ses doits, qui les roses effacent,
Toucher son luth, et d'un tour de ses yeux
Piller les cœurs de mille hommes qui passent.
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Researcher for this page: David Wyatt
This text was added to the website: 2015-02-26
Line count: 14
Word count: 115
A man is truly made of lead or wood
If he does not start from fear and wonder
When he sees face to face my unequalled lady
Or when he hears the harmony of her voice;
Or when he sees her alone, pensive,
In the fairest months, as if taking counsel with herself,
Crossing the meadows and with her rosy hand
Picking from their rows the choicest blooms;
Or when in the summer, when the heat abates
In the evening, he sees her by the door as she makes
Silk like gold with her clever fingers;
Then with her fingers which are pinker than roses
Playing her lute, and with a glance of her eyes
Stealing the hearts of a thousand passing men.
