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Lo mes e·l temps e l'an deparc
e nesci sen escamp e vèrc
et apres restaur e condérc
de novelh e bastisc ed orc
vers de sen, qu'autre non orga;
qu'ops m'es qu'amas e conderga
sen que no·s escamp ni·s verga,
que ja per autre no·s jongra
locx que non tem folhs deparca.

Proez'e Sen caussic e marc
e Malvestat aplan e 'stèrc;
e prendi Rainart per Domérc
e laissi Albuca per Dorc
e ydria per pauca dorca.
Per na Malafos Domerga
us no s'aplan ni s'esterga,
que de mal li fai tal jombra
qu'Engans lo caussic'e·l marca.

Vas motas partz mo sen esparc,
on trastot mon castier pèrc
que, s'ieu lauzan aus pretz ni dérc,
Malvestatz lo met bas e·l gorc
e·l sabota e l'engorga:
ja no vol que s'aus ni·s derga
ans quier qu'om joy e pretz perga,
per que tot lo mon encombra.
Sa nebla cug que s'esparca.

De gran prezon mon cor alarc,
per qu ieu m'esfors torn e revèrc
vas lo joy qu'ieu pus vuelh ni sérc:
no vol castel, ciutat, ni borc,
aquest joys, ni·l truc na Borga,
mas selh que tostemps lo serca
tal mal don pieitz li reverca.
Ben laissa clardat per ombra
selh que vas son dan s'alarca.

Tostemps ey paor que·ns embarc
la freoldatz qu'Adam cubèrc:
per cobezez'al punh s'edérc
que·l baisset tan qu'a penas sorc;
don vezem tart de mil sorga
us sols qu'a son mielh s'aderga.
No y a celat ni cuberca,
que Selh que·ns escriu e·ns nombra
tolh al cors don l'arm'embarca.

Per que·n portara major carc
selh que anc afan no sufèrc;
e ja no·s cug traspas ni bérc
qu'als pus ricx erguelhs non emborc.
Que mals ben cass'ez emborca,
per que la fes franh e berca.
Selh on degr'aver suferca
n'an tout so qu'autre·y apongra,
que·n portaran major carca.

Si tot m'en gar, a pauc no m'arc
el foc don natura·n mal mèrc,
qu'a penas hi truep layc ni clérc
que·l dreg cami non entreforc
on sens falh et entreforca;
greu ni vey laica ni clerca
tant o quant que mal no merca.
Folhs non a sen pus que bongra
qu' en yfern quier tostemps arca.

Grieu es castiatz per verga
ni crey s'a mala noverga,
mas siey gap revol e longra
tals morsels que pueis l'amarca.

Dieus sal lo comte e·l derga
que ses luy no vuelh Venerca
ni manjar congre ni congra,
rom ni passarc ni passarca.

I dismiss the month and season and year
and I scatter and disperse the trivial meaning
and, afterwards, I restore and embellish
anew, and prepare and outline and weave
a meaningful piece that somebody else couldn't make;
for I must pile and highlight
a meaning that does not rush out and reveal itself,
so that one can't, by help of another, reach
that place that doesn't appear to a fool.

I crush and trample Prowess and Sense
and blandish and indulge Wickedness;
I choose Reginald over Dominic
and leave Albuca for Dorc
and a jar for a poor jug.
May nobody, for the sake of Lady Harlot, smooth
and clean Domerga,
for the former piles such a clump of ills
that Deception crushes and erases him.

I spread my sense on many sides,
where my warning is soon lost
for, if, through praise, I heighten and increase virtue,
Wickedness drags it down in a vortex
and submerges and whirls it:
he doesn't want it to raise and mount,
rather, he wants one to lose joy and virtue,
so to take all the world over.
His mist, I believe, is spreading.

I free my heart of a great prison,
for I struggle to turn and revert
towards the joy that I most want and seek:
it doesn't want castle, city or borough,
this joy, nor the embrace of lady Borgia,
but he who does all the time is looking
for trouble such as turns to worse.
He leaves the light for the shade, for sure,
who leans towards his downfall.

I fear, all the time, that we are engulfed
by the frailty that veiled Adam:
he got close, out of greed, to the point
where he'd fall so low that he'd hardly raise;
then, we seldom see, out of a thousand stand
a single one who sides with his own good.
There is no hiding nor cover:
for He who writes and numbers us
takes from the body that which tarnishes the soul.

Thus he who never suffered worry
will bear a greater burden;
and let no one believe there's exemption or protection
from the punishment of the richest's pride.
For evil rather breaks and taxes good,
since faith cracks and rusts.
Those upon whom one should rely
have taken away everything that could have supported the others,
and for this they'll be burdened more.

Albeit I'm wary of it, I nearly burn
in the fire where nature deserves its ruin:
I hardly find a layman or cleric
who doesn't mix the right way up
when his sense is failed and mixed up;
I hardly see a lay woman or nun
who doesn't, more or less, meddle in sin.
The fool doesn't have more sense than a bugger
who craves to burn forever in hell.

He is seldom punished with a cane
(and I don't think he has a stern stepmother)
but his snout repulses
and makes his boasting (which then turns sour) remote.

God save the count and promote him,
for, without him, I don't want Venerca,
nor to eat he- or she-conger,
turbot nor he- or she-flounder.