Page suy moy: par l'herbe plus espesse ;
Fausche l'esmail de la verte saison,
Puis à plein poing en-jonche la maison
Des fleurs qu'avril enfante en sa jeunesse.
Despen du croc ma lyre chanteresse :
Je veux charmer, si je puis, la poison
Dont un bel œil enchanta ma raison
Par la vertu d'une oeillade maistresse.
Donne-moy l'encre et le papier aussi :
En cent papiers, tesmoins de mon soucy,
Je veux tracer la peine que j'endure;
En cent papiers plus durs que diamant,
Afin qu'un jour nostre race future
Juge du mal que je souffre en aimant.
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Text Authorship:
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Researcher for this page: David Wyatt
This text was added to the website: 2012-07-25
Line count: 14
Word count: 98
Page, follow me through the thickest grass;
Scythe down the jewels of the fresh season,
Then scatter in the house fistfuls
Of the flowers that April has borne in her youth.
Take down from its hook my singing lyre;
I want to charm away, if I can, the poison
With which a fair eye has enchanted my reason
Through the power of a masterful glance.
Give me ink and paper too:
On a hundred sheets, witnesses of my cares,
I want to set out the trouble I'm enduring;
On a hundred sheets harder than diamond,
So that one day in the future our countrymen
Can judge the harm I suffer from being in love.
