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Presque trainsi ung peu moins qu'estre mort
Vivant en dueil sans avoir nul confort
Veoir l'on me peut eslieus de Fortune
Qui sans cesser pis qu'aultre me fortune
Et me combas de plus fort en plus fort.
Helas je suis contre mon vueil en vie
Et si n'est riens dont tant j'ay d'envie
Que de pouvoir veoir ma fin bien prouchaine
Morir ne puis et tousjours my convie
Et m'est bien tart que du tout je desvie
A celle fin que soye hors de paine.
Il m'est advis que la mort me tient tort
Quant autrement elle ne fait son effort
De moi vengier de ma vie importune
Car je languis sans avoir joye aucune
Par mon maleur qui me devoure et mort.
Presque trainsi ung peu moins qu'estre mort
Vivant en dueil sans avoir nul confort
Veoir l'on me peut eslieus de Fortune
Qui sans cesser puis qu'aultre me fortune
Et me combas de plus fort en plus fort.
Authorship:
- by Anonymous / Unidentified Author [author's text not yet checked 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 Johannes Ockeghem (1410?25 - 1497), "Presque trainsi" [text verified 1 time]
Available translations, adaptations, and transliterations (if applicable):
- ENG English (David Wyatt) , title 1: "Almost gone", copyright © 2012, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
Researcher for this text: David Wyatt
This text was added to the website: 2012-09-10
Line count: 21
Word count: 160
Almost gone, a bit less than being dead, Living in grief without any comfort You can see me chosen by Fortune Who without cease, worse than any other, oppresses me And battles me harder and harder. Alas I am against my will alive And so there is nothing which I desire so much As to be able to see my end very close; I cannot die and yet I always wish it And it is so slow that I am always turning aside To that end which may be empty of pain. They tell me that death holds a grudge against me, Since otherwise it would make an effort To take revenge on me for my unwelcome life; For I despond, without any joy, Through my misfortune which devours and kills me. Almost gone, a bit less than being dead, Living in grief without any comfort You can see me chosen by Fortune Who without cease, worse than any other, oppresses me And battles me harder and harder.
Authorship:
- Translation from Old French (Ancien 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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Based on:
- a text in Old French (Ancien français) by Anonymous/Unidentified Artist
This text was added to the website: 2012-09-10
Line count: 21
Word count: 168