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De mots ricos no tem Peire Vidal
ni N'Albertet de sa votz a ben dir
ni·N Perdigon de greu sonet bastir,
ni·N Pegulhan de chansos metr'en sal,
ni de gabar sos chans N'Arnaut Romieu,
ni de lausar Fonsalada son fieu,
ni·N Pelardit de contrafar la gen,
ni·N Gaulaubet de viular coyndamen.

Donc, mas tan say qu'un d'elhs temer no·m cal
d'aquelhs mestiers don m'auzetz descubrir,
ben es razos, segon lo mieu albir,
un sirventes -e pueis que parlem d'al-
comens ades, que·l fassa tost e lieu,
ab que·ls mostre, sitot lur sera grieu,
que Dieus m'a dat tant d'albir e de sen
qu'ensenhar puesc tot lo pus sapien.

Aissi quo·l fait del rey emperial
de Castella val mais, ses tot mentir,
que de nulh rei qu'om puesc'el mon chauzir,
son sirventes qu'ieu fas, plus natural
que de negun dels trobadors, per Dieu,
. . . . . . . . . .
s'esmeron mielhs que l'aurs el fuec arden,
on pus lo au totz hom qui be·ls enten.

La lengua vir on la dent mi fa mal
e·l cor vas selhs ont hom no·s pot jauzir;
so so·l baro malvat, cuy Dieus azir,
que an baissat a pretz son fieu sessal,
q'us no·l mante ni vol seguir son trieu
si quon degra; per so·ls en blasmi eu
aitant quan puesc ab mon chantar soven,
et ai m'en datz d'enemicx mais de cen.

En res no·m tem si quascus mi vol mal
de ricx malvatz, q'us no·m pot abellir
ni pretz donar, que s'us al sebellir
portes liatz mil soutz al corporal,
no·m saupra mal, fe que dey Sant Andrieu,
quar son escas, cobe plus que juzieu;
e ja negus lo pretz d'un ayguilen
no·n portara, mas paupre vestimen.

Pueys remanran l'aver, si Dieus me sal,
ben leu a tals que fan per filhs noyrir,
que·s cujaran sian lurs, ces falhir,
que no·y an part plus qu'ieu a cuy non cal,
qu·l metran tost, fassa·m o vil o lieu,
que si negus ja n'albergon romieu
per que l'arma truep ab Dieu chauzimen,
yeu trairai viu quascun del monimen.

E sep qui pert lauzor e pretz a Dieu
per filhastre que·s cug sia filh sieu,
yeu dic d'aisselh que, per dreit jutjamen,
deu en ifern per mais traire turmen.

I don't fear Peire Vidal for his rich vocabulary
nor Albertet for his clear enunciation
nor Perdigon for writing a mournful melody
nor Peguilhan for his savoury songs
nor Arnaut Romieu for his boastful singing
nor Fonsalada's bragging about his possessions
nor Pelardit for his imitations
nor Gaulaubet for his graceful fiddling.

Well, since I know so much that I needn't fear any of them
in those occupations that you hear me list,
it is good ground, in my opinion,
that I write-and, then, let's talk about something else-
a sirventes, and that I do so soon and quickly,
to show them, even though it'll grieve them,
that God has given me so much judgment and wisdom
that I can teach all the most learned.

Just as the enterprises of imperial king
of Castile are worth more, without any lie,
than any king's that can be chosen in the world,
his Sirventes, which I write, more natural
than any of the troubadours, by god,
they are refined better than gold in the burning fire,
and whoever hears it more, understands it well.

My tongue ever turns to the aching tooth
and my heart turns to those one can't enjoy:
such are the wicked barons, whom god hates,
who have been scrimping on their feudal dues,
since none either keeps or wants to follow his path
as he should. I blame them for that
as much as I can, often, in my singing,
and this has given me more than a hundred enemies.

I don't fear at all if some wishes me ill
of the evil rich, for I don't like any of them
nor any can give me virtue; because, if one, when being buried
carried a thousand coins under his bodice,
by the faith I owe St. Andrew, tit wouldn't bother me
for they are stingy, greedier than Jewry;
and not one of them will (after death) have clothing
worth a farthing, but a pauper's.

Then, help me god, they'll leave their fortune
easily to some they have raised as children
which they'd believe was theirs, no doubt about it,
-[people] in which they have no more part than I do in whomever-
who will squander it quickly -I don't care one way or the other-
for if they host any pigrim
for their soul to find mercy with god,
I'll take each of them alive from his tomb.

And he who loses praise and virtue with god
for a stepchild whom he imagines is his son
I say about him that, after a fair trial,
he must suffer torment in hell forever.

Note: This sirventes is a mockery of Anc no mori per amor ni per al by Peire Vidal.