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Ar m'er tal un vers a faire
Que ja no·m feira fraitura;
Qu'ar es enves mi escura
Cil qe·m fai mal per ben traire.
Adolen,
Faillimen
Fui, qe·m ven!
Ben aic lai doncs pauc de sen
S'ieu anc fui ves lieis bauzaire!

Seigner Dieus! Cum aus retraire
Tan gran ma desaventura?
Mos dols non ac anc mesura
Qe·m trastorna·l cor en caire.
Si espren
Aspramen
Mon talen
Ira, e·m mou marrimen
Quand ieu·m cuig far de joi fraire.

En ploran serai chantaire
Puois nuills gaugz no·m asegura,–
Car mos Bos Respieitz pejura
Que·m val mos chantars? Qu'ar laire.
Fol tormen
Per parven
Vauc seguen
S'als non ai mas marrimen
E dol e dolor e braire.

Desastrucs nasqiei de maire
Puois totz mals mi apejura.
Ben es fols qui mal m'agura!
Pieitz cum posc aver? pechaire! –
Neis qui·m pen
Aut al ven
A presen
Cel tenrai per benvolen
Qu'ams los huoills m'en volra traire.

Dolsa dompna de bon aire
No·m gitetz tant a non-cura!
Ve·us que tolt avetz dreitura
S'ab merce·l cors no·us esclaire.
Qu'ieu n'aten
Chausimen
Si·us es gen,
Si non faitz me peneden
Issir fors de mon repaire.

Que, per l'arma de mon paire,
Si·l vostre durs cors s'atura,
No·m tenra murs ni clausura
Q'ieu non iesca de mon aire
Mantenen
Ves tal sen
Don fort len
Me veiran mais miei paren.
Mas vos non o prezatz gaire.

Dompna, cel qui es jutgaire
Perdonet gran forfaitura
A cel – so ditz l'escriptura –
Qe era traicher e laire!
Eissamen
En son sen,
Qui non men
E non perdona corren –
Ja no·il er Dieus perdonaire

Per vos am, dompn'ab cor vaire
Las autras tant co·l mons dura,
Car son en vostra figura;
Que per als no·n sui amaire! –
Neis la gen
Pauc valen,
Mal volen,
Neis cels qe·us vezon soven!
Mas non lor n'aus far vejaire.

Domna, pren
Un coven
Avinen:–
Si mais paz comandamen
Ja no·m perdon neus vejaire.

E si·us men
En coven
Qe·us prezen,
Ogan si'eu malamen
Entuissequatz ab varaire

Now I have a verse to compose,
one that'll never do me wrong;
for now she glooms towards me,
she who makes me trade evil for good.
Wretched,
I run away from
a fall, for she betrays me.
I had indeed very little sense
if I ever was deceitful towards her.

Lord god, how dare I recall
such a great misfortune?
My grievance was ever measureless,
for it throws my heart into confusion.
So sorrow,
harshly,
seizes
my desire and anguish overtakes me
when I fancy myself joy's brother.

I shall be a tearful singer
since singing doesn't grant me any happiness –
for, if it is to my Bos Respeit's detriment,
what good is my song to me? So now I [just] bark.
Apparently,
I pursue
a mad torment
when I don't have anything but anguish
and pain and grief and lamentation.

I was born unfortunate,
for all ills become worse with me.
He is a fool indeed who predicts me ill:
How can I be worse off – Bummer! –
even if one hangs me
high in the wind,
right now?
I would consider him benevolent,
who would wish to gauge both my eyes.

Sweet lady of high rank,
do not cast me into such carelessness!
Realise that you have denied justice
if you don't enlighten your heart with mercy.
For I expect
clemency
from it, if it pleases you,
if you don't make me leave
my dwelling as a penitent.

For, by my father's soul,
if your stony heart persists,
neither wall nor fence will keep me
from exiting my home
immediately
in such a direction
as my relatives
will not see me for a long time.
But you don't care much about it.

Lady, he who is the judge
pardoned a great misdeed
to him – so say the scriptures –
who was a traitor and thief.
Likewise,
in his opinion,
even if one doesn't lie,
if he doesn't pardon right away
god will never pardon him.

Because of you, o lady of fickle heart, I'll love
the other women as long as this world lasts,
for they are in your own image:
for no other reason am I their lover
[and] even [that of] people
of little worth
who wish me ill,
even [of] people who see you often;
but I don't dare show it to them.

Lady, accept
an honourable
pact:
if I ever trespass your command,
I shall never even forgive myself the intention.

And if I lie to you
in the pact
I propose you,
may I then be badly
poisoned with veratrum.

Note: veratrum, or white false hellebore, an extremely toxic herb, was used in the antiquity to (ineffectively) treat madness, indicating that psychiatry hasn't much changed in the past 2000 years.