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Al prim qe·il timi sorz en sus
E pel cim prim fueill del branquill,
S'agues raizon, feir'un bon vers;
Mas ma dona no vol q'eu chan
Mais de leis, ni·l ven a talan;
E chanz si d'amor non es faig
No val plus com ses domna amars.

Com a lei non platz, no·n dic plus.
Sens es tot ab que m'ames ill!
E, per Dieu, si es ben envers
Qe non auz chantar derenan
De lei vas cui sui voitz d'enjan
E cels cui pietz voil – fers, estraig! –
Er donc oimais voigz mos chantars.

Faiziro·l segle de mon us,
Lauzengier fals de faig volpill!
Ai! cant n'auran ja d'amors ters
Ab lur chau parlar devinan!
Per lur ditz van domnas duptan
E an mortz drutz ses colp atraig
Soven per lur fals devinars.

C'ant cist fait mil malvatz per us;
Chamjan de solatz en perilh,
Qe dizon de tort en travers
De cel qe lur er en semblan:
"Domn'es vers q'ieu entenda tan..."
Que·il domna cuig'en tot trasaig
Qe sos amics l'aia espars.

Rics hom torna tost en räus
Can sufre c'om se meravill
Qe non s'aussa, mai s'en fait fers
De cels que·i venon cortejan.
Ges non an colpa cil qu'o fan;
Qe·l segnier n'es de tot forfaig
A cui en coven castiars.

When first the thyme shoots up
and, on the tree-tops, the first leaves [shoot up] on the twigs,
if I had a theme, I would write a good verse;
but my lady doesn't want me to sing
about her any more, nor does it strike her fancy;
and a song, if it isn't about love,
isn't worth more than loving without a lady.

Since she doesn't like it, I say no more.
All makes sense, with her loving me;
still, by god, it is rather twisted
that I don't dare sing further
about her towards whom I am void of deception
and that by those I wish the worst to – savage, low-born people –
my singing is now unheard.

They have voided my usual world,
[these] false slanderers of cowardly deeds.
Ah! how many will they have turned away from love
with their groundless guess-work talk!
Because of their sayings ladies go doubting,
and they have killed lovers without a tangible blow,
often, through their false guesses.

For they have inured to ills a thousand;
they turn merriment into peril
by saying in a slanted way ill things
concerning the ones they have in mind:
"Lady, this much I have heard, it is true..."
so that the lady imagines it is for sure
that their lover has exposed her.

A gentleman soon turns into disrepute
if he suffers people to wonder
that he does not exalt himself, but has grown uncouth
towards those who visit his court.
Those who do so are guiltless,
for the lord, whom ought to be chastised,
takes all the blame of it.

Note: the text is notoriously mutilous, as the somewhat erratic last stanza clearly betokens.