| prosody | miscellaneous |
En aital rimeta prima M'agradon lieu mot e prim Bastit ses regl'e ses linha, Pos mos volers s'i apila; E atozat ai mon linh Lai on ai cor qe m'apil Per totz temps, e qi·n grondilha No tem'auzir mon grondilh De la falsa genz qe lima E dech'e ditz (don quec lim) Ez estreinh e mostr'e guinha (so don Joi frainh e esfila), Per q'ieu sec e pols e guinh: Mas ieu no·m part del dreg fil, Qar mos talenz no·s roïlha, Q'en Joi nos ferm ses roïlh. Qan vei rengat en la cima Man vert-madur frug pel cim, E qecs auzelletz relinha Vas Amor, don chant'e qila, Per cui ieu vas Joi relinh, Don m'esforz e chant e qil; E·l rosinhols s'estendilha Qe'm nafra d'amor tendilh, Si que·l cor m'art, mas no·m rima Ren de foras, mas dinz rim; Q'Amors l'enclav'e l'escrinha –Si! pels sans qi son part Mila!– E·l ten pres dinz son escrinh; Q'ades am mais per un mil Midons, si tot si·m perilha Ni·m mou trebailh ni perilh. Asatz m'a sauput d'escrima Il, q'enqers vas mi s'escrim; Mas non ha d'Aics tro a Sinha Sa par defors ni dinz vila E si·m destreinh ni me sinh, Ha pro poder que·m envil; Mas ja sos cors no frezilha Q'a mi·l sors promes frezilh. Don mos cors sailh fort e grima Si q'en trep e saut e grim E plor mais per que . . . Mon cort gaug, cui acortilha Dols, don prenc mal . . . Qe·m ten trist en son cortil Per l'amor que m'a volpilha Midons c'a cor trop volpilh. Qar mi ten midons tan vil, Maldic lo jorn mil vetz cilha Q'aduis mon cor pres de cilh. Mas ja no m'en tengues vil, C'anc mos cors non fon pres cilha Mas pels cis ni sobrecilh. |
In a clever little poem such as this, I like light and clever words, put together without rule or line, and since my intention is set on it, I have given back youth to my lineage there where my heart is fixed for all time. And if anyone should complain, may they be prepared to listen to my own complaints about the faithless, who wear us down, who speak out, who say things (against which I myself file away) and constrain, point, stare, (and in so doing Joy is spoiled) they are the reason I wither, pant and stare, though I never stray from the straight and narrow, for my desire does not rust and in Joy it remains untarnished to us. When I see all the ripening fruit in the treetops, and when little birds line up and turn toward Love, and sing about it, I myself turn to Joy, for which I strive and sing at the top of my voice the Nightingale awakes, and wounds me with newly-roused love. My heart is on fire; nothing outside of it burns, though it flames within, for Love surrounds and holds it captive, yes – by all the Saints beyond Milan, – It is kept enclosed in Love's coffer, for I now love Midons a thousand times more though it puts me in peril, in trouble, in danger. She knows how to hide her love, she even hides it from me. But she has no equal from Aix to Signe, in town or in the country, and she constrains me, binds me, she has great power which puts me in my place. But she never frolics, and fate promised me a frolic. And so, because of this I leap and bound, and frisk and jump, and leap. But I weep more . . . because my brief joy is curtailed by Pain, about which I take ill . . . I'm sad in the confines of her cowardly love, for Midons has for me a craven heart. And since Midons considers me so base, I curse a thousand times the day the One [Love] who led my heart up to my eyelashes. But she never should consider me base, for I only ever came near her at eyebrow level. |