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Apres mon vers vueilh sempr'ordre
Una chanson leu per bordre
En aital rima sotil;
Mas ges non ai'us de tordre
Si·m pert ma par ni·m ten vil
Q'ieu vas mon miels no·m apil.
Qar? No sai qant m'ai a viure,
Per qe mon cors al cor liure;
E sapcha·n guidar dretz fil
Mos volers, e non s'ature
Mas en valen seinhoril;
Q'om no·s iau de son cortil.
Soven pens q'ailhors mi derga,
E pueis Amors ten sa verga,
Qe·m n'a ferit de grieus pols,
E·m ditz c'ap mals no·m aerga;
Q'ieu non sui escarniz sols
Q'escarnitz fon ia n'Aiols.
Cil qi m'a vout trist-alegre
Sap mais qu'i vol sos ditz segre
Qe Salamos ni Marcols
De fatz ric ab ditz entegre:
E cai leu d'aut en la pols
Qi·s pliu en aitals bretols.
Qe·m val q'ailhor non puesc creire?
Q'anc no frais copa de veire
Plus tost q'Amors frainh e rom –
Mas si·l plaz qe·l mal cor meire
Il sap lieu soudar ses plom; –
Mas ha mi soudat trop som.
Viatz m'assajer'a volvre
S'Amors me volges absolvre;
Mas, pres en loc de colom,
Me fai de seschas envolvre,
Qe no·m gic penr'un sol tom,
E m'apella per mon nom.
– Mal dic; tainh qe m'en peneda –
Non! – Per qe? – Mos cors m'o veda. –
Amors me tol qe·m ten trist. –
Qi·t tol, non cug qe t'o reda. –
So·m tol qe plus l'aurai qist –
No·t tol so q'anc non agist.
Si aic gaug, qe·m tol e·m merma
Qar mos talenz no·m aserma.
Ben ai fol talan, per Crist,
Qar mos cors miels no s'aferma
En lai on faz gen conqist
Q'en sai on ai mon dan vist.
A Dieu prec qe mos precs auja:
Q·el vueilh'e don q'ieu m'en gauja
Lai on son volgutz amics!
Qar – ja·l sieus fins cors s'esflauja–
Totz autres trop noms plus rics,
E non o dic ges enics.
Cel Dieus qi fes terr'e aiga,
Caut e freig, gent clergu'e laiga:
Afol sels qe desabrics;
C'ama voluntat veraiga
E ab cubertz fals presics,
Fan dan als drutz e destrics.
Domna, franca res veraiga
Eu que·us sui verais amics
A vos mi ren totz antics.
Plus qe ja fenis fenics
Non er q'ieu non si'amics.
After my verse, I want to weave, right away,
a plain, playful song
in a similar subtle rhyme;
may I not get into the habits of the turtledove
– if my partner drops or despises me –
so that I don't console myself as best as I can.
Why? I don't know how long I'll live,
so that I follow my heart;
and may my desire be able to
guide me rightly and not stop
except in a praiseworthy seigneury;
for one doesn't take pleasure in one's own courtyard.
I often consider turning elsewhere
and then Love takes up his rod,
with which he has beaten me grievously,
and tells me not to exalt myself through evil;
for I am not mistreated alone,
since Sir Aiols was mistreated too.
She who has made me sad-merry
knows that I want to follow her dictates more
than Salomon or Marcol
of the noble deeds and righteous words:
and he falls easily from stars to dust
who trusts in such dunces.
What does it avail me that I cannot plead elsewhere?
A glass goblet doesn't crack
quicker than Love shatters and breaks –
but if he likes the sick heart to heal,
he can solder it without lead; –
but he has soldered me too flimsily.
I'd turn elsewhere immediately
if Love wanted to exempt me;
but, captured like a dove,
I let myself be trapped in rushes,
– for I do not avoid taking a single fall –
and calls me by my [given] name.
"I speak ill: I ought to repent it."
"No!" – "Why?" – "My heart prevents me."
"Love, who keeps me sad, takes away from me."
"I don't think that he who takes [something] from you, will give it back."
"He takes away from me what I shall most require of him."
"He doesn't take away from you what you never had."
I had at least happiness, which he detracts and mangles
since it does not prepare my desire for me.
I have foolish enough intentions, by Christ,
for my heart isn't firmer
there where it makes a noble conquest
than here, where I have seen my harm come.
I pray god to hear my prayers:
that he agree and concede that I be happy
there where I am an accepted lover;
for – let not people harp about her fine person –
she cherishes everyone else too much,
and I do not say this in anger.
May that god who made earth and water,
warmth and cold, people both clerical and lay
cast down those you don't protect;
for he loves sincere desire
and they, with their covert, false speeches
give lovers harm and straits.
Lady, you earnest, truthful thing,
I, who am a truthful lover,
surrender myself to you entirely.
The phoenix shall be finished before
I cease being your lover.