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Lo vers comenssa A son veil, sen antic! Segon l'entenssa De so qu'ieu vei e vic, N'ai sapienssa: Don ieu anc no·m jauzic! Greu puosc abric Trobar ses malvolenssa, Mais en baro. Tant creis durenssa C'alegr' en son li ric! Avols cossenssa Fai sobremontar tric! Sofren sofrenssa Esdevenon amic, Al ver afic, Segon la penedenssa N'auran perdo. Non sai que faire, Tant fort sui entrepres, Qu'entorn l'araire Si fant villan cortes, E' il just pechaire De so qu'en lor non es. Si m'ajut fes, Tals mil en auzetz braire C'anc res non fo. Ges no m'esclaire, Ni o farai d'est mes, Ni o dei faire Pels fills que fant laides! Trop tem mal traire Per atendre sordeis! Mout nais espes Malvestatz de sa maire Senes razo. Lo cors m'esglaia, Ja non o celarai, Amors veraia Trob'ar greu fina sai, Qu'en lieis non aia C'a falsedat retrai! Contra·l savai Es leu amors savaia E bon' al bo. Mout pretz m'en aia D'amor que no mesfai, Qu'es ver' e gaia Contra·l ver amic gai, Tant cant vol braia Lausengiers et abai, Qu'ieu sai on jai L'amors que no s'esmaia De lor sermo. Qui ses bauzia Vol Amor albergar, De cortesia Deu sa maion jonchar! Get fors feunia E fol sobreparlar! Pretz e donar Deu aver en bailia, Ses ochaio. C'Amors s'embria Lai on conois son par. Blanch' e floria E presta de granar, Ses fellonia Fai contr' amic ausar! Ops l'es que·is gar Cel cui bon' Amors guia, De mespreiso. Jovens someilla, Greu prendra mais revel, E par qu'espeilla Lo seignor Daucadel, Tot jorn conseilla Ab son dous caut morsel! Prop del tessel Malvestatz li pendeilla Al capairo. Dolors m'esveilla De fresc e de novel, Cals meraveilla Que greu trob qui m'apel Malvestatz treilla E Jois torn'en paissel, Al plus isnel Fer tal vetz lonc l'aureilla Qu'el non ditz no. D'aquest flagel Marcabrus si coreilla Ses compaigno. |
The piece begins on an old tune of ancient wisdom; according to my understanding of what I see and what I saw, I know it well, which has never done me any good. I can hardly find shelter, without ill intentions, especially among the barons. The hardship grows so much that the rich are happy. Their unhealthy tolerance makes cheating run loose. Suffering [the same] suffering, they become friends; at the last judgment, having done penance, they will get forgiveness. I do not know what to do, so much I'm astounded that, around the plough, the peasants act as gentlemen and the just as guilty of something they didn't do. God help me: you hear thousands of people hollering about things that never existed. It certainly, doesn't brighten me, nor will it, this month, nor should it, because of the sons' misdeeds; I fear too much to be looking for trouble to get to the vile. Malice born rather thick of its mother without reason. My heart is full of horror: I will not hide it any more. True love finds it hard to apply itself [?] to a noble person [?] who doesn't have in himself something resembling falsehood. To the wicked, love is easily wicked and good to the good. I must value much love that doesn't misbehave, which is true and cheerful towards a true and cheerful friend. Holler as much as he pleases the slanderer, and bark, for I know where lies the Love that doesn't budge from her words. He who, without lies, wants to welcome love must strew his home with courtesy! Throw out felony and foolish overtalking! Virtue and largesse he must have at hand, without excuses. For Love hastens there where he recognizes as his peer. White and blooming and ready to sprout branches, without felony, it rises its friend high [?]. One who is guided by good Love must guard himself from error. Youth slumbers and will hardly wake. It seems to mirror the Lord Daucadel, consorting all day with his sweet, hot piece [?]! Close to the hook, wickedness hangs from his bonnet. Pain awakens me again and right away. What wonder, if I hardly find who calls me? Wickedness spreads like a cling vine and Joy is turned into its prop and [Malice] knocks, at such moments, the most agile man about the ear, so that he never says no. Against this scourge, Marcabru rages without a companion. |
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