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Als durs, crus, cozens, lauzengiers
– Enojos, vilans, mals parliers –
Dirai un vers que m'ai pensat;
Que ja d'als no·i aura parlat,
Qu'a pauc lo cor no m'esclata
D'aisso qu'ieu ai vist e proat
De lur malserva barata.

E dirai vos de lur mestiers
Si cum selh qu'en es costumiers
D'auzir e de sufrir lur glat.
Si·m peza, mas non er laissat
Qu'ieu ab mal dir no·ls combata;
E ja del plus mo·m sapchon grat
Qar mos cors totz non los mata.

Lauzenjador fan encombriers
Als cortes et als dreituriers
E a cellas qu'an cor auzat;
E quecx per aquel eis mercat
A l'autre cobre et aplata
Son verguonhos avol barat –
Aissi son de fer' escata!

Per que·y falh totz bos cavaliers
Que·ls cre; q'us non l'es plazientiers
Mas per qu'en traga mielhs son at;
Qu'il pesson, ist malaürat!
Pus d'als non val una rata
Des que·l fara so voluntat
O·lh dira lauzenja grata.

D'autres n'i a que van estiers,
Que·s fa quecx cortes ufaniers;
Que per outracujar mot fat,
O cuj'aver mielhs guazanhat
Cel qu'a plus la lengua lata
En dir de partir l'amistat
De cels en cui Jois s'afata.

Que·ls plus pros e·ls plus gualaubiers
Vei de lauzenjar prezentiers;
E pes me d'ome c'a amat:
Cum pot far amador irat?
Mas ges (qui n'en crit ni·n glata!)
Non amon tug cil qu'an baizat –
So sap sidons na Lobata.

Tal cug'esser cortes entiers
Qu'es vilans dels quatre ladriers,
Et a·l cor dins mal ensenhat;
Plus que feutres sembla sendat
Ni cuers de bou escarlata
Non sabon mais que n'an trobat –
E quecx quo·s pot calafata.

Pos non aus mos durs deziriers
Dir, tan tem que·l dans fos dobliers,
Maldirai los en luec d'aurat;
E Dieus – quar fara caritat –
Los maldiga e·ls abata
Sai, e pueys lai en Neiron prat
On recebran deliurata.

Palharet, non ges gran palhiers,
D'aquest vers ompli tos paniers
E porta tot ton col cargat
A'n Girart, de cuy ai peccat,
A Perpinhan part Laucata.
E di·l (per que m'aia comprat)
Qu'el cassa·s e'n desbarata.

Ben chant (qui que s'en debata)
Dels lauzengiers qu'an Joi baissat
Del suc entro la sabata.

Joglar, s'eu ja cautz sabata,
Qi no·us ve pauc a cavalgat,
Ni sap per qe se debata.

To the hard, cruel, scalding slanderers
– annoying, vile, ill-speaking –
I will sing a song I have devised;
for it shan't treat any other subject,
for my heart is about to burst
because of what I have seen and experienced
of their evil trickery.

And I shall tell you about their doings
as one who is used to them,
to hearing and enduring their harsh talk.
It grieves me, but I shan't renounce
fighting them with ill talk;
and let them not be grateful to me
because I do not kill them all.

Slanderers hamper the progress
of the noble and righteous men
and of those ladies whose heart is daring;
and each, through this very trickery,
covers and hides from the others
his own shameful, wicked treachery –
such a heinous breed they are!

He makes a mistake, every good knight
who believes them; for none of them is courteous
but for his own advantage;
for they think "What a fool!"
and don't consider him worth anything
as soon as he does what they want
or tells of some interesting scandal.

There are others who do otherwise:
each thinks of himself as noble and proud,
for, through most stupid presumption,
they think he has best deserved
who has the broadest tongue
in saying what breaks the friendship
of those in whom Joy is born.

For I see the most daring and most munificent
disposed to slander;
and I think, of a man who has loved:
"how can he make lovers sad?"
However (no matter who cries and wrangles on the subject),
not all love who have made love,
as my Lady Lobata knows well.

One thinks he is a whole gentleman
who is four-quarters base-born
and has a churlish heart within;
less than felt resembles taffeta
or ox-leather scarlet wool
do they know anything, unless they have invented it,
and each caulks as well as he can.

Since I do not dare express my harsh desire,
so much I fear to double the damage,
I shall curse them as a distraught man;
and may god (it would be a charitable act)
curse them and cast them
down, here and there, in the Elysian Fields
where they shall receive their due.

Palharet, not a big straw stack,
fill your baskets with this verse
and bring all your laden neck
to Sir Girart, who has wronged me,
in Perpignan, around Leuchate.
And tell him (so that we may be even)
that he is driving himself away and making a bad bargain.

I sing well (whoever may deny it)
of the slanderers who have brought Joy down
from the crown of the head to the shoe.

Joglar – so may I never wear shoes! –
he who doesn't see you has ridden little
and doesn't know why they dispute.