| prosody | miscellaneous |
Seigner n'Audric, Al vostr' afic Mout etz d'aver secos e plans, Puois so dizetz Que no·n avetz, Qu'en setembre vos faill lo grans. Lai, ves Nadal Tot atretal Vos faill la carns e·l vins e·l pans Et en Pascor, Seguon l'auctor, Crezetz en l'agur dels albans. S'a destre vai, Conosc e sai, Qu'etz de bon ostal segurans, Si l'agurs faill Venon badaill, Et es blasmatz sains Julians. Totz vostres us Sap Marcabrus, E totz vostre meiller bians Del ventr' emplir, E d'escarnir Es, e de cossentir putans. Quan vos totz sols Etz ben sadols, Non vos es ges rics gaps loindans! Segon tas leis As plus conqueis Que non fetz Cesar als Romans. De lengueiar Contra joglar Etz plus afilatz que milans! Del vostre bec, N'Artimalec, No·is jauzira ja crestians. |
My lord Sir Audric, according to you, you're barren and stripped of means, for you say here that you have none and that, in September, your wheat fails you. Then, around Christmas, just the same way, you lack meat, wine and bread and, at Easter, according to a witness, you read your fortune in the flight of the hobby. If it goes right, I know and understand that you believe you're granted good lodgings; if the omen fails, then you're all gaping, and saint Julian is blamed. Marcabru knows all your habits and all your ideal ways of life: stuffing your face, and flouting and welcoming harlots. When you, alone, are well fed, great bluster is certainly not far away from you: according to your tales, you have conquered more than Cesar did for the Romans. To use your tongue against a minstrel, you have sharpened it more than a kite's. Your bill, Sir Everspeakill is not something a Christian'll ever enjoy. |