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| prosody | miscellaneous |
Crezens, fis, verays et entiers fui vas midons tostemps, senhor, et ylh portava·m tan d'onor qu'anc un jorn son joy no m'estrays. Desaventur' — ailas! — lo·m trays, que sap tot lo mon escarnir: falsa mortz que·ns a faitz partir mi e midons! Dieus lieys ampar! Mielhs fora qu'ieu muris premiers que ses joy visques ab dolor; que perdud'ay la bellazor dona qu'anc fos ni er jamais: per qu'ay ira, dols e pantays. Mortz, cum pogues midons aussir, que totz lo mons degra jauzir sas beutatz e·l joys remirar? Dona, per vos mos deziriers m'aportava de joy sabor; aras no·m val joys ni·m socor, qu'ira·m met al cor tan gran fays, quan suy em pes, cazer mi lays e no·m puesc nafrar ni delir. Dona, mais volgr'ab vos murir ab joy qu'ab ira forsenar! Tant estranhs es mos cossiriers, nuech e jorn planc, sospir e plor, caytius, desheretatz d'amor, ses joy, dolens, que d'ira·m pays, e par ben al fron et al cays: jov'e saur, vielh encanezir, cazer, levar e trassalhir me fay ira, viu mort anar. Jamais no seray prezentiers que perdut ey pretz e valor; estar ses joy a deshonor, ja Dombredieus viure no·m lays! Quec jorn afenisc et abays, qu'ira no·m pot del cor yssir; quan pes de joy per esbaudir, tot lo sen perc e·m dezampar. Totz autres joys m'es encombriers, tant ay lo cor plen de tristor; perdud'ay vergonha e paor: ybres, auras vau, ybriays. Ja Dieus no·m do per qu'ieu engrays, ni·m lays mais ad amor servir; mais vuelh mon cor pessan blezir: tostemps serei tortre ses par. Dompna, grans joys, grans alegriers, vos met'el renc del cel aussor ab los angils que fan lauzor, aissi cum Sans Johans retrays, qu'anc fals lauzengiers, brus ni says, non poc un sol de vos mal dir; n'ieu no sabria yssernir los vostres bos ayps ni comtar. Jhesus vos fass'al sieu servir el clar paradis resplandir entre las verjes coronar. Quar Gavaudan no pot fenir lo planch ni·l dol que·l fa martir, jamais res no·l pot conortar. |
Respectful, faithful, true and whole I always was towards my lady, sir, and she honoured me so much that she didn't shy a single day from her pleasure. Misfortune, alas! took her away from me, [misfortune]that can flout the entire world: [it was] treacherous death that parted us, me and my lady! May god welcome her! It would have been better, had I died first rather than living joyless [and] in pain; for I have lost the most beautiful lady that ever was and ever'll be: for this I have sadness, affliction and torment. Death, how could you kill my lady, when all the world should have enjoyed her beauty and admired her joys? Lady, my desire of you brought me the taste of joy; now joy does nothing for me nor does it help me, for sadness put on my heart such a burden [that], when I stand, I let myself fall and I can't wound nor kill myself. Lady, I'd rather die with you in joy than be driven mad by sadness. My thoughts are so estranged that, night and day, I mourn, sigh and weep, forlorn, bereaved of love, without joy, pained, I feed on sadness and it is obvious from my forehead and face: young and ginger, sadness makes me, like an old man, become hoary, stumble, raise and walk like a living dead. Never again will I be a gallant, for I have lost virtue and valour; may god almighty not let me live, [and] stay without joy, dishonoured! Every day, I fade and approach the end, for sadness cannot leave my heart; and, when I think of joy to distract myself, I lose all my senses and the gift of reason. All the others' joy bothers me, so full of sadness my heart is; I have lost all shame and fear: I walk confused, rambling, drunk. May god not let me heal or let me serve for love again; I'd rather have my heart wither with torment: I'll always be a turtle-dove without companion. Lady, may the great joy, the great cheer, put you in the highest of the heavenly realms, with the angels that sing praises the way St. John reports: for no treacherous slanderer, young or old, could find one bad thing to say about you; and I wouldn't be able to recount your good virtues nor to praise them. May Jesus keep you in his service and make you shine in the clear paradise and crown you among the virgins. For Gavaudan is unable to end the mourning and the pain that turn him into a martyr, and nothing ever can console him. |