by Pierre de Ronsard (1524 - 1585)
Translation © by David Wyatt

A ce malheur qui jour et nuit me poingt
Language: French (Français) 
Our translations:  ENG
A ce malheur qui jour et nuit me poingt
Et qui ravit ma jeune liberté,
Dois-je tousjours obeir en ce poinct,
Ne recevant que toute cruauté ?
    Fidellement
        Aimant,
        Je sens
        Mes sens
        Troubler,
    Et mon mal redoubler.

Cest or frizé et le lys de son teint,
Sous un soleil doublement esclaircy,
Ont tellement mes mouelles attaint,
Que je me voy déjà presque transi.
    Son œil ardant,
        Dardant
        En moy,
        L'esmoy
        Du feu,
    Me brusle peu à peu.

Je cognois bien, mais, helas ! c'est trop tard,
Que le meurtrier de ma franche raison
S'est escoulé par l'huys de mon regard,
Pour me brasser ceste amère poison :
    Je n'eus qu'ennuis
        Depuis
        Le jour
        Qu'Amour
        Au cœur
    M'inspira sa rigueur.

Et nonobstant, cruelle, que je meurs
En observant une saincte amitié,
Il ne te chaut de toutes mes clameurs,
Qui te devroient inciter à pitié.
    Vien donc, archer
        Tres-cher,
        Volant,
        Doublant
        Le pas,
    Me guider au trespas !

Ny mes esprits honteusement discrets,
Ny le travail que j'ay pour t'adorer,
Larmes, souspirs et mes aspres regrets
Ne te sçauroient, Dame, trop inspirer,
    Si quelquefois
        Tu vois
        A l'œil 
        Le dueil 
        Que j'ay 
    Pour l'amoureux essay. 

Quelqu'un sera de la proye preneur 
Que j'ay longtemps par cy-devant chassé, 
Sans meriter jouira de cet heur 
Qui a si fort mon esprit harassé. 
    C'est trop servy ; 
        Ravy 
        Du mal 
        Fatal, 
        Je veux 
    Concevoir autres vœux. 

Quelque lourdaut, ou quelque gros valet, 
Seul, à l'escart, de mon heur jouissant, 
Luy tastera son ventre rondelet, 
Et de son sein le pourpre rougissant. 
    De nuict, de jour, 
        L'amour
        Me fait
        Ce fait
        Penser,
    Et me sert d'un enfer.

Or je voy bien qu'il me convient mourir
Sans esperer aucun allegement;
Puis qu'à ma mort tu prens si grand plaisir,
Ce m'est grand heur et grand contentement,
    Me submettant,
        Pourtant
        Qu'à tort
        La mort
        L'esprit
    Me ravit par despit.

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•   C. Saint-Saëns 

C. Saint-Saëns sets stanzas 1-2, 4

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Text as set by Saint-Saëns: 

A ce malheur qui jour et [nuit]


Text Authorship:


Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive):


Available translations, adaptations or excerpts, and transliterations (if applicable):
  • ENG English (David Wyatt)  , "The lover's illness", copyright © 2012, (re)printed on this website with kind permission 


Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]
This text was added to the website: 2011-04-29 
Line count: 80

Word count: 309
The lover's illness
Language: English  after the French (Français) 
This illness, which stabs me day and night,
And which steals the freedom of my youth,
Must I always obey it in this way,
Receiving only cruelty?
    Loyally
    Loving
    I fell
    My feelings
    Troubled
And my illness doubled.

These golden curls, and the lilies of her skin
Beneath a sun shining doubly-clear 
Have struck me to the core so far
That I feel myself almost frozen. 
    Burning,
    Flashing,
    Her eye
    The fire
    Of torches
   Slowly scorches.

I realise, but it's too late,
That the murderer of my cool reason
Has escaped through the portal of my eyes
To brew for me this bitter poison.
  Worries 
    surround me
    Confound me
    Since cruel
    Love's rule
  Bound me.

And though I may die, cruel one,
Preserving this holy friendship
All my cries will not bother you
Who ought to be moved to pity.
    Cupid dear
    Come here
    Fly fast
    Fly high
    Guide my path
    To death.

Neither my shy and modest heart,
Nor the trouble it causes me to love you,
Not tears, sighs and bitter regrets --
None of these, my lady, will be able to move you enough
  If sometimes you rest
    Your eye
    On the sorrow
    That follows
    When I
  Put love to the test.

Some other hunter it will be who takes
The prey that I've been coursing
Without deserving, he'll enjoy that hour
Which has so fiercely tortured my soul.
    It's no use;
    Abused
    By bitter
    Ill
    I will
  Pursue a love that's fitter.

Some dolt or gross servant it will be instead
Who profits from the hour that should be mine
And caresses he rounded belly
And the blushing crimson of her breast.
  By night and day
    Love sounds
    This knell
    Confounds
    My way
  And makes my life a hell.

I clearly see that I should really die
Without a hope of lessening of pain;
So if my death gives such great pleasure,
Then that will be my finest hour, my joy,
    In submission
    Death's commission
    To seize
    My spirit
    And give it
    Release.

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Text Authorship:

  • Translation from French (Français) to English copyright © 2012 by David Wyatt, (re)printed on this website with kind permission. To reprint and distribute this author's work for concert programs, CD booklets, etc., you may ask the copyright-holder(s) directly or ask us; we are authorized to grant permission on their behalf. Please provide the translator's name when contacting us.
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This text was added to the website: 2012-05-18
Line count: 80
Word count: 338