Arms, loves, ladies, knights,
Clerics, musicians and writers in French,
All philosophers, all poetry,
All those who have melodious voices,
Those who sometimes play an instrument 
And who hold dear the sweet art of music,
Lead the mourning; bewail, for it is only right,
The death of Machaut, the noble rhetorician.

Never did he speak foolishly of love,
Rather was he courtly in all his words,
And his singing was very pleasing 
To great lords, counts, and burghers.
Ho! Orpheus, you should lament 
And grieve with heartfelt grief,
Arethusa too, Alpheus, all three,
The death of Machaut, the noble rhetorician.

Pray for him so that no one may forget him, 
The bailiff of Valois asks it of you, 
For there is none alive today
Such as he was, nor will there ever be. 
There will be lamentation of counts and kings
For a long time on account of his good style. 
Dress yourselves in black; bewail, all people of Champagne, 
The death of Machaut, the noble rhetorician.

O flower of flowers of all melody,
Sweetest of masters who was so adept, 
O Guillaume, earthly god of harmony,
After what you've made, who will be the choice 
Among all the makers? I surely do not know him.
Your name will be a precious relic,
For all will bewail in France, and in Artois,
The death of Machaut, the noble rhetorician.

The spring of Cirrha and the fountain of Helicon
Of which you were the stream and the fount,
On which poets based their study,
Must fall silent, which greatly distresses me.
Alas! It is for you, who lie all cold in death,
That I have a bitter grief, to which there is no remedy.
Bewail, harps and Saracen horns,
The death of Machaut, the noble rhetorician.

Rebec, lute, vielle and symphony, 
Psaltery, all courtly instruments, 
Zithers, gitterns, recorders, chalumeaux, 
Transverse flutes and you, nymphs of the wood, 
Tambourine too, you should put to work, 
All instruments that are entirely venerable, 
Do your duty: bewail, gentle Gauls, 
The death of Machaut, the noble rhetorician.