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A ce malheur qui jour et [nuit]1 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.
C. Saint-Saëns sets stanzas 1-2, 4
About the headline (FAQ)
View original text (without footnotes)1 Saint-Saëns: "jour"
The Saint-Saëns score uses modernized spelling:
poingt -> point tousjours -> toujours obeir -> obéir poinct -> point cest or frizé -> cet or frisé esclaircy -> éclairci mouelles attaint -> moëlles atteint voy -> vois moy -> moi l'esmoy -> l'émoi brusle -> brûle saincte -> sainte devroient -> devraient
Authorship:
- by Pierre de Ronsard (1524 - 1585), "Chanson", appears in Pièces retranchées [author's text checked 1 time against a primary source]
Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive):
- by Charles Camille Saint-Saëns (1835 - 1921), "L'amant malheureux ", 1921, published 1921, stanzas 1-2,4 [ voice and piano ], from Cinq poèmes de Ronsard, no. 5, Paris: Durand & Cie. [sung text checked 1 time]
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: 313
This illness, which stabs me day and night1, 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.
1 Saint-Saëns: "day in, day out"
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.
Contact: licenses@email.lieder.example.net
Based on:
- a text in French (Français) by Pierre de Ronsard (1524 - 1585), "Chanson", appears in Pièces retranchées
This text was added to the website: 2012-05-18
Line count: 80
Word count: 336