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Quan lo rius de la fontana  
S'esclarzis, si cum far sol,  
E par la flors aiglentina,  
E'l rossinholetz el ram  
Volf e refranh ez aplana  
Son dous chantar e l'afina,  
Be'ys dregz q'ieu lo mieu refranha.  

Amors de terra lonhdana,  
Per vos tot lo cors mi dol,  
E no'n puesc trobar mezina  
Si non al vostre reclam  
Ab maltrait d'amor doussana  
Dins vergier o part cortina  
Ab dezirada compahna.  

Pus tot jorns m'en falh aizina,  
No'm meravilh si n'ai fam,  
Quar anc genser crestiana  
Non fo, ni Dieus non o vol,  
Juzia ni sarrazina.  
Ben es selh paguatz de mana,  
Qui de s'amor ren guazanha.  

De dezir mos cors no fina  
Vas selha res qu'ieu pus am,  
E cre que'l voler m'enguana  
Si cobezeza la'm tol;  
Que pus es ponhens d'espina  
La dolors que per joy sana,  
Don ja no vuelh qu'om m'en planha.  

Quan pensar m'en fai aizina  
adonc la bays e la col,  
mas pueys torn en revolina  
perqu'em n'espert e n'aflam,  
quar so que floris non grana.  
Lo joys que mi n'ataina  
tot mos cujatz afaitanha.  

Senes breu de parguamina  
Tramet lo vers en cantan  
En plana lengua romana,  
A'N Ugo Bru per Filhol.  
Bo'm sap quar gent peitavina  
De Berri e de Guizana  
S'esjau per lieys e'n Bretanha.  

  When the rill of the source
  turns clear, as is its habit
  and the dogrose blossoms
  and the nightingale on the bough
  performs and repeats and smoothens
  and improves its sweet song,
  it is time I take mine up again.

  Love of a distant land,
  for your sake all my heart aches
  and I can't find a remedy
  (unless it is your name's reverberation)
  to the ill of lacking sweet love,
  in the garden and behind the curtain,
  of a longed-for companion.

  Since I don't get a chance all day
  it is no wonder I crave for it
  because a prettier Christian
  never was nor--god forbids it--
  a Jewish or Saracen woman.
  He is well paid in manna
  he who gains some of her love.

  My heart desires incessantly
  her whom I love the most,
  and I believe my will deceives me
  since lust takes her off from me;
  it is more stinging than a thorn
  the pain which joy heals,
  so I don't want anyone to pity me.

  When I have time to fantasize about her
  then I kiss and hug her;
  but then I twist and turn
  because it frustrates and fires me
  that the flower doesn't give fruit.
  The joy which torments me
  abates all my pride.

  Without a parchment scroll
  I send this poem, singing
  in plain Romance language,
  to Ugo Bru, through Filhol.
  I am happy that people from Poitiers,
  Berry and Guyana
  are gladdened by her: and the Bretons likewise.