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Amors, cum er? Que faray? Morrai frescx, joves e sas, Enaissi dins vostras mas? Oc! Murir, si·m pliu per vos! Ades m'i pleu pauc mos pros; E totz temps, tan cum ieu viva, Cum que m'en an, m'i pliuray. Per qu'ieu fauc avol essai Pos aissi vos suy humas; Qu'en feyratz s'ie·us fos trefas, Mals e felhs ez ergulhos? Fora·n plus aventuros – Oc! So·m par, pos ar esquiva M'es, quar ves vos franc cor ay. Ades mi datz plus d'esmay On mielhs suy ves vos sertas. E fauc hi ben que vilas, Quar per mal suy amoros. Mas no say esser anctos Vas vos, qu'ades recaliva Mos leus cors on piegz m'en vay. Mas vos avetz – don morrai, Amors–l'us de Barrabas; Que·ls vostres faitz soteiras – qu'estan mal, per qu'ieu viu blos – No faitz ges als plus iros, Mas ves aquels etz ombriva Qu'avetz en poder ses play. Per que, si·m peza, dirai, Amors, tan ves vos que cas: Ades o dic – suy auras De vos; q'anc mala sai fos Vostr'aventura mest nos! E tem a dir...quals? – c'om pliva So que·us cofon e·us dechay. Mas ieu o dic; e si·n bray Ni m'en desmen hom vilas, Vengua armatz en us plas; E sia orbs o gelos, S'ieu no volri'esser jos, Vencutz; qui·s vol, so escriva; Sol vers no fos si·m n'esglay. Mas non es de mar en sai, Ni lay on es flums Jordas, Sarrazis ni crestias Qu'ieu non venques tres o dos; E s'ai dig que enojos, Ma grans dolors m'en abriva Que·m fai ver dir e no·m play. E s'ieu en fauc semblan guay Ni·m depenh cueynhdes e vas, Si tot m'ai bos ermitas Estat et enquar ploros; E bos hom religios Serai (tot per gent geliva) Tostemps, si·l cor no m'en tray. E ma chanso si no fos Alques ves Amor esquiva, Tengra ves Rodes en lay Comtessa nominativa, Pros e bell'ab cor veray. |
Love, what will happen? What shall I do? Shall I die in my prime, young and healthy, like this, in your hands? Yes: death, if I trust in you! Now my worth promises me little with her; still, forever, as long as I live, no matter how I fare, I'll put my trust in her. I do the wrong thing in being so kind to you; what would you do if I were treacherous, evil, nefarious and haughty? Would I be more fortunate? Yes, it seems to me, for now she's uptight towards me because I have an earnest heart towards you. Now you dismay me the most where I am most faithful to you. And I act, indeed, like a churl in it, for I am in love to my detriment. But I cannot act shamefully towards you, for now my fickle heart is rekindled where things go worst for me. But you have – and that'll be the death of me, Love – Barabbas' habit, that you don't keep your most underhand tricks – which are mean, and make me live unhappily – ever for the most begrudging ones but you are cruel to those whom you have undisputedly in your power. Wherefore, although it grieves me, I shall speak, Love, to you in the manner of a mongrel: now I say it: you've driven me insane; cursed be forever your fortune among us; and I dread to say...what? – Let one decry that which confounds and abashes you. But I do say it; and if I decry it and any low-born man objects, let him come armed into the lists, and, be he blind or jealous, bit the dust, if I don't wish to lose; and let he who wants write this down unless it is somebody I'm afraid of. But there aren't, on this side of the sea, nor there where the river Jordan flows Saracens or Christians that I can't vanquish in pairs or trios; and if I have spoken like a boorish man, my great pain, which makes me tell the truth and doesn't please me, drives me to it. And I do pretend to be merry and put myself down as cheerful and fickle, although I have been a pious hermit, and much tearful; and I shall be a good man of the church (all this, because of jealous people), always, if my heart doesn't keep me from it. And if my song were not somewhat harsh towards love, it would be held, around Rodez, by a high-ranking countess, noble, beautiful and true of heart. |