No More Learning

But now I'm vexed by the dawn,

And the sorrows, that day brings nigh,

Make me sigh,

More than the dawn

The dawn, oh, the dawn!

Keep a watch, watchman there, on the tower,

For your lord: jealously he holds power,

He's more vexing than the dawn:

While words of love we speak here.

But our fear

Comes with the dawn,

The dawn, oh, the dawn!

Lady, adieu! No longer dare I stay;

Despite my wish, I must be away.

Yet heavily weighs the dawn,

How soon we'll see the day;

To betray

Us, wills the dawn,

The dawn, oh, the dawn!

Kalenda maia

Calends of May

Nor leafy spray

Nor songs of birds, nor flowers gay

Please me today

My Lady, nay,

Lest there's a fine message I pray

From your loveliness, to relay

The pleasures new love and joy may

Display

And I'll play

For you, true lady, I say,

And lay

By the way

The jealous ones, ere I go away.

My belle amie

Let it not be

That any man scorns me from jealousy,

He'd pay me,

Dearly indeed

If lovers were parted by such as he;

Never would I live happily,

No happiness without you I see;

I'd flee

Run free

No man would find me readily;

An end

Of me,

Fine Lady, were you lost utterly.

How could I lose her

Replace her ever

Any fine Lady, before I had her?

No beloved or lover

Is just a dreamer;

When he's a lover, no more a suitor,

He has accrued a signal honour,

A sweet glance produces such colours;

Yet I here

Have never

Held you naked, nor any other;

Longed for,

Lived for,

You without pay, I have though, forever.

I'd be sadder

Should we part ever,

Sorrowful, my Beautiful Warrior,

For my heart never

Seems to deliver

Me from desire

Nor slakes it further;

Gives pleasure only to the slanderer

He, my lady, who finds no other

Joy, the man there

Who'd feel my utter

Loss, and thanks would offer,

And consider

Insolent starer

You, the one from whom I suffer.

Flowers so kindly,

Over all brightly,

Noble Beatrice, and grows so sweetly

Your Honour to me;

For as I see,

Value adorns your sovereignty,

And, to be sure, the sweetest speech;

Of gracious deeds you are the seed;

Verity,

Mercy,

You have: and great learning truly;

Bravery

Plainly,

Decked, with your generosity.

Lady so graced,

All acclaimed and have praised

Your worth with pleasure freighted;

Who forgets, instead,

May as well be dead,

I adore, you, the ever-exalted;

Since you have the kindest head,

And are best, and the worthiest bred,

I've flattered

I've served

More truly than Erec Enida.

Words are fled,

All is said,

Sweet Engles - my estampida.

Notes: The Calends, Latin Kalendae, corresponded to the first days of each month of the Roman calendar, signifying the start of the new moon cycle. The troubadours' spring celebrations of kalenda maia and their courtly worship of 'the lady' probably drew on remnants of pre-Christian worship. Pound mentions Kalenda Maya in Canto CXIII.

Engles is Boniface Marquess of Montferrat (c1150-1207), leader of the Fourth Crusade, called here Engles, the 'Englishman', for some unknown reason. His eldest daughter was Biatrix.

Beatrice here is probably Boniface's daughter Biatrix. The vida claims that Raimbaut spied on Beatrice in her shift practising with her husband's sword, after which he called her his Bel Cavalier.

Erec et Enide is Chretien de Troyes' first romance, completed around 1170 and the earliest known Arthurian work in Old French. It tells the tale of Erec, one of Arthur's knights, and the conflict between love and knighthood he experiences in his marriage to Enide.

The Estampida, a medieval dance and musical form called the estampie in French, and istampitta (also istanpitta or stampita) in Italian was a popular instrumental style of the 13th and 14th centuries. The earliest reported example of the musical form is this song Kalenda Maya, supposedly written to the melody of an estampida played by French jongleurs. All other known examples are purely instrumental pieces.

Guillem de Cabestan (1162-1212)

A Catalan from Capestany in the County of Roussillon, his name in Occitan is Guilhem de Cabestaing, Cabestang, Cabestan, or Cabestanh. According to his legendary vida, he was the lover of Seremonda, or Soremonda, wife of Raimon of Castel Rossillon. Raimon killed Cabestan, and fed the lover's heart to her without her knowledge. On discovering what she had eaten, she threw herself from a window to her death. The legend appears later in Boccaccio's Decameron.

"It is Cabestan's heart in the dish! "

Ezra Pound - Canto IV
Aissi cum selh que baissa? l fuelh

Like to him who bends the leaves

And picks the loveliest flower of all

I from the highest branch have seized,

Of them, the one most beautiful,

One God has made, without a stain,

Made her out of His own beauty,

And He commanded that humility

Should her great worth grace again.

With her sweet glance, her gentle eyes

She made true joyous lover of me,

And the love whose pain applies

Heart's tears to my complexion, see,

I have never sought to explain;

But now I'll sing of her freely,

From whom is born such beauty

For I've not shown her plain.

I won't speak common boasts or praise,

But truth, with a thousand witnesses,

Let all desire what I wish always,

The lance of love for the joyous

That wounds the unprotected heart

With friendship's pleasant pleasing;

Yet I have felt such blow's assailing,

That from the deepest sleep I start.

Let her then show me mercy

And welcome, despite her grandeur,

Let me reveal the ill that pains me,

And how she adds to my dolour,

Into my heart now drives it further:

Love and sadness she grants to me,

For love of her, the best you'll see

From Le Puy down to Lleida.

Her rich worth is of the highest,

My lady they hold the noblest here,

Of all the world naked or dressed:

God made her gentle, to His honour,

She's chosen by the best wherever

She may choose to show her beauty,

And her true refined nobility

That with the best adorns her ever.

She is so noble, of sweet welcome,

I wish to take no other lover,

She's wise, mocks not at anyone,

With beauty blessed and with valour;

And not forgetting courtesy;

For usage of the courteous will

Protects her from all enmity still,

And every other infamy.

Note: Lleida, Lerida in English until the 20th century, is one of the oldest towns in Catalonia.

Lo jorn qu'ie? us vi, dompna, primeiramen,

The day I saw you, lady that first time,

When you were pleased to let me see,

All other thoughts departed from my mind,

And my wishes turned to you, utterly.

For, lady, you set desire in the heart

With one sweet smile, and a simple glance

Made me forget myself, all circumstance.

That great beauty and sweet conversation,

The noble speech and loving pleasure

That I knew there so dazed all sensation,

That to this hour, lady, I've not its measure.

Yours the concession, to plea of my true heart

That seeks to exalt your worth and honour;

Yours my submission, I could love no better.

And since I am so loyal to you, lady,

That Love grants me no power to love elsewhere,

But lets me pay court to one, maybe,

Who might remove the heavy grief I bear;

So when I think of you to whom joy bows,

All other love's forgotten and displaced:

With her my heart holds dearest, there it stays.

Remember, if you will, the promises,

You know you made me when we parted,

My heart then gay and filled with happiness,

Because sweet hope in me you commanded:

Great joy I felt then, now my ills increase,

Yet, when you please, I shall that joy know

Once more, sweet lady, for I live in hope.

And no ill treatment ever makes me dread,

Solely because I think my life will gain

From you, lady, some certain pleasure;

Whereby ills will be joy, delight again,

Solely through pain, for I know Love demands

That true lovers great wrongs still must pardon,

And for their good must bear an evil burden.

Ai! Lady, were this the hour when I might see

You, in your mercy, granting me such honour

By simply deigning then to call me lover!

Anc mais no m? fo semblan

Never would I have conceived

That, for Love, my joy

And pleasure I would leave,

For sweetness tears employ:

Held in her power truly,

Love has me, for in me rise

Such sweet delights, I see

To serve her God made me

And for her worth I prize.

Often I have complained

Of her whom I do praise,

And then have thanked again

The root of my complaints,

And that's not strange, it's plain;

For those whom Love ennobles

Must suffer many things,

For often, the poet sings,

True good can conquer ills.

The lover can't complain

Nor confess to his harm,

Nor speak about his pain,

Nor praise the good, his balm,

If he seeks to change,

And is ever altering:

Many choose to talk

Knowing nothing of what

Brings joy or suffering.

None knows enough of love

To speak without trembling,

Yet I've seen laughter move,

Though not from joy arising,

And many the sighs that prove

No more than clever feigning;

Yet Love is leading me,

Towards the best I see,

Without shame or cheating.

Lady, the truest lovers

And the long-suffering too

And those that most flatter

Their lady and her truth,

Without orders, their ruler,

Through your courtliness

Will do what pleases you

And nothing I do rue,

Nothing but fears repress.

You so weigh on my mind

That when I pray I often

Think you are at hand,

Then your fresh complexion

Your body nobly planned,

So fill my memory

I think of nothing else,

And from this sweet thought well

Goodwill and courtesy.

Bertran de Born (c1140-d. before1215)

Bertran de Born, a minor nobleman from the Limousin, shared with his brother the lordship of Autafort, or Altaforte, French: Hautefort, in the Perigord. One of the major troubadours of the twelfth century, his warlike nature and love of political intrigue, particularly his espousing the divisive cause of Henry, the Young English King, caused Dante to place him in the Inferno, Canto XXVIII, as a stirrer-up of strife. He ended his life as a monk in the abbey of Dalon, where his presence is recorded from 1197 to 1202.

"All this to make 'Una dompna soiseubuda', a borrowed lady,

or as the Italians translated it 'Una donna ideale'"

Ezra Pound
Dompna, puois de mi no? us cal

Lady, since you care not at all

For me, but keep me far from you,

And for no good reason too,

The task it seems immense

Of seeking some other,

Who might bring me new joy ever,

And if I have not the making

Of a lady as much to my liking,

Of the worth of she that's gone,

I shall love no other one.

Since I'll not find your equal,

Lovely as you, made as nobly,

Nor so joyous, sweet in body,

Lovely to every sense,

Nor so happy

Nor, by all repute, so worthy

I'll go seeking everywhere

A feature from each woman fair,

To make a borrowed lady

Till you look again toward me.

Colour fresh and natural

I'll take, fair Cembelins, from you

And your sweet love-glances too!

And risk the impertinence

Of forgoing there

All else in which you lack no share.

Then of Aelis I'll demand

Her adroit and charming tongue

Which must surely aid my suit,

That it be not dull or mute.

On Chalais' Vicomtess I call;

I'd have her give instantly

Her throat and hands to me.

Then take the journey thence,

Without straying,

To Rochechouart speeding

That Agnes her hair might grant me

Since Isolde, Tristan's lady,

Who was praised in every way

Was less fair than she today.

Audiart, though you wish me ill, in all,

I would that you dress her in your fashion,

That she might be well-adorned

And, as you are perfection, hence

Naught shall tear,

Nor love find aught improper.

Of my Lady Better-than-Best, my plea

Is her true fresh noble body

That shows her at first sight

Sweet to see naked if one might.

On the 'Exile', too I call

Wishing her white teeth, also

The welcome and conversation, so

Sweet in her presence

And her dwelling.

My 'Fair-Mirror' in your giving

Is your gaiety and stature

And what your fine manner

Displays, well-known as ever,

Never to change or waver.

My Lady, all I'd wish befall

Is that I might feel love, in truth,

For her as much as I do for you!

That a passionate intense

Love be sired,

One by my body well-desired,

Yet I'd rather of you demand

A kiss than any other woman,

So why does my love refuse me

When she knows I need her truly?

Papiol, straight to my Lover,

Go, for me now, sing to her,

That love's all disregarded, gone

From the heights, fallen headlong.

Be? m platz lo gais temps de pascor

'And so that you may carry news of me, know that I am Bertrand de Born,

he who gave evil counsel to the Young King.

I made the father and the son rebel against each other''

Dante Inferno XXVIII, 134-136
The joyful springtime pleases me

That makes the leaves and flowers appear,

I'm pleased to hear the gaiety

Of birds, those echoes in the ear,

Of song through greenery;

I'm pleased when I see the field

With tents and pavilions free,

And joy then comes to me

All through the meadowlands to see

The heavy-armoured cavalry.

It pleases me when outriders

Make labourers and cattle flee,

It pleases me when follow after

Crowds of well-armed soldiery,

And I am pleased at heart,

To see great castles forced by art

Their walls taken, rent apart,

To see a host at war,

Enclosed by moats in every part,

With close-knit palisades and more.

I'm also pleased to view some lord

Who leads the vanguard in attack,

On armoured horse, a fearless sword,

Who can inspire his men to hack

Away and bravely fight,

And when the conflict's joined aright,

Each must in readiness delight,

And follow where he might,

For none attains to honour's height

Till blows have landed left and right.

Clubs and blades and painted helms

Shields that swords and lances batter

We'll see when fighting first begins,

And many vassals strike together,

Their steeds will wander

Mounts of dead or wounded warrior;

And when he enters in the lather

Let each noble brother,

Think only arms and heads to shatter,

Better to die than let them conquer.

It's not to my taste, I tell you,

Eating, drinking, sleeping, when

I hear voices cry: 'Set to! '

From either side, hearing then

Horses neighing in the gloom,

And cries of 'Help me! ', 'Aid me! ' too,

And into the grassy ditch's tomb

Fall great and small to their doom,

Seeing the corpses twice run through

By lances on which pennants loom.

Love would have lovers chivalrous,

Good with weapons, eager to serve,

Noble in language, generous,

Knowing how to act and observe

Both outdoors and within,

According to the powers they're given.

Such as are pleasant company, then,

Refined and courteous men.

She that in bed such love does win,

Is cleansed forever of her sin.

Noble Countess, you are the best

That's seen or ever will be seen,

Men say, compared with all the rest

The noblest lady on earth, I mean,

High-born Beatrice,

Fine lady in acts and worthiness,

Fountain from which flows all goodness,

And beauty all peerless,

Your rich fame is in such excess

Of all others you appear mistress.

One of high lineage,

In whom is every beauty,

I love, am loved by her deeply;

And she grants me courage,

So I'll not superseded be

By some other, presumptuously.

Barons, go pawn freely

All your castles, towns and cities,

Before ever you halt your armies.

Papiol, go swiftly

To Yea-and-Nay and gaily;

Say they're too long at peace.

Notes: Yea-and-Nay is Richard I of England, younger brother of the Young English King, Henry.

Papiol is Bertran de Born's court minstrel, jongleur or joglar.

Ai! Lemozis, francha terra cortesa,

Ah, Limousin! Country free and courtly,

I'm glad of this honour you receive,

Since joy and worth, repose and gaiety,

Courtesy, gallantry and sweet ease

Are come to us, may they never leave;

To serve her well we must quickly see

In what ways we might court this lady.

Gifts and tasks and ornaments freely

Aid love, as water fish in the sea,

Or as instruction, prowess, bravery,

Do courts, wars, tourneys, and weaponry;

Who claims both brave and skilled to be,

Does ill if he promises to deceive,

Since Lady Guiscarda's here directly.

Note: Guiscarda was the wife of the Viscount of Comborn, and from Bourgogne. His friendship with her caused a rift between Bertran and Madonna Maent (Maeut de Montaignac, the wife of Talairan, brother of Count Elias V of Perigord 1166-1205. The name was later spelt Talleyrand! )

Giraut de Bornelh (c. 1138 - 1215)

Giraut or Guiraut, also Borneil or Borneyll, was born to a lower class family in the Limousin, probably in Bourney, near Excideuil. Connected with the castle of the Viscount of Limoges, his skill earned him the nickname of Master of the Troubadours. He may have accompanied Richard I and Aimar V ofLimoges on the Third Crusade. He certainly made a pilgrimage to the Holy Land but perhaps before the Crusade. His most famous poem is this alba, Reis glorios.

Reis glorios, verais lums e clartatz,

Glorious king, true light and clarity,

Almighty God, Lord, in your charity,

Be a true help now to my friend!

For I've not seen him since day's end,

And soon it will be dawn.

Sweet friend, do you wake or are you sleeping?

Sleep no more, now, you must be waking!

For in the east I see a star rise

Day-bringer, star familiar to my eyes,

And soon it will be dawn.

Sweet friend, I sing now and I call to you!

Sleep no more: I hear the bird sing too

That goes to seek day in the greenery,

I fear you may be harmed by jealousy,

And soon it will be dawn.

Sweet friend, for me now go to the window

And gaze on the stars from earth below

And see how I am your true messenger!

If you will not, it is you will suffer,

And soon it will be dawn.

Fair friend, since I parted from you,

I've not slept, nor ceased praying too,

I pray to God, who's the son of Mary,

To give you to me in sweet loyalty,

And soon it will be dawn.

Fair friend, you begged me not to sleep

There at the threshold, but a true watch keep

On all through the night till it is day.

Now my song and presence you dismay,

Yet soon it will be dawn.

Fair friend, I am in so rich a way

I wish no more for the dawn of day,

For the noblest ever born of mother

I hold and embrace, so they're no matter

Not jealous fool or dawn.

Peire Raimon de Toulouse (fl. 1180-1220)

Peire Raimon de Tolosa or Toloza was from the merchant class of Toulouse. He became a jongleur and spent time at the courts of Alfonso II of Aragon, William VIII of Montpellier, and probably, Raymond VI of Toulouse. He also lived in Italy (Lombardy and Piedmont), at the courts of Thomas I of Savoy, Guglielmo Malaspina, and Azzo VI of Este. Azzo's daughter Beatriz was the addressee of one of his poems. This poem of fin'amor, perfect or true love, is one of the more comprehensive statements of the troubadour ideal.

De fin'amor son tot mei pensamen

On true love are all my thoughts bent

And my desires and my sweetest days,

With true and faithful heart I'll serve always,

To live close to Amor I do consent,

And in simplicity I'll serve him still

Though my service bring me only ill,

Since they are painful and dangerous

The torments Love grants his followers.

Yet to me Love has such honour sent

Since my heart's firmer truer in its ways

Than any other man; and if it seldom says

Who it loves that's for fear of ill intent;

Should her sweet smile, face, eyes fail to tell,

And her fine and noble manners as well,

Her gaiety, and fair speech, miraculous,

Who she is to those who are connoisseurs!

And since your actions are so nobly meant

Humble, in trembling, my love I phrase,

For there is no lover as faithful always

As I to you, Lady, through this world's extent.

Through audacity, through pride I know full well

I sin, in loving you: often my eyes must fill,

With tears, for to direct my heart is ruinous

Towards one who is so high among the first.

Alas! A man cannot yearn and yet absent

Himself from where he'd most deeply gaze,

Or throw off sorrow and his spirits raise,

But swiftly seeks what his hope shall dent.

And know, lady, that the more my tears well,

The more love grows for you and my goodwill,

A sweet pleasant thought's born in my heart thus

Who, night and day, love's thoughts cannot disperse.

I dare to ask that your mercy, pity be lent

To one who finds no equal in these days,

To you; yet if one grants you service and aid,

Fair Lady, his own true gain is consequent.

And as you are, of all, most beautiful,

Most worthy, my service shall be more careful,

Than ever it was, no less continuous

The love for your dear honour I rehearse.

Sweet lady, I desire and want you still

More than the world, for true love draws

Me to the lovely body I praise in verse.

Refuge grants Rambertis de Buvalel,

To worth and merit, and so evermore

In joy and gaiety all here shall immerse.

Anonymous Aubes (12th-13th century)

Quan lo rossinhols escria

While the nightingale sings away

To his mate both night and day

I'm with my sweet friend always,

Under the flower.

Till the watchman on the tower

Cries loudly: Lovers, now arise!

I see the dawn, and day's clear skies.

En un vergier sotz fuella d'albespi

In a deep bower under a hawthorn-tree

The lady clings to her lover closely,

Till the watchman cries the dawn he sees,

Ah, God, Ah, God, the dawn! Is here so soon.

'Please God, now, night fail us not cruelly,

Nor my friend be parted far from me,

Nor day nor dawn, let the watchman see!

Ah, God, Ah, God, the dawn! Is here so soon.

Fine gentle friend, let us kiss, you and I,

Down in the meadow, where sweet birds sigh,

And all to each other, despite jealous eye.

Ah, God, Ah, God, the dawn! Is here so soon.

Fine gentle friend, we'll have sweet loving,

In the garden, where the small birds sing,

Till the watch his pipe sets echoing,

Ah, God, Ah, God, the dawn! Is here so soon.

Out of the sweet air that rises from my

Dear friend who's noble, handsome, and bright,

By his breath I'm touched, like a ray of light. '

Ah, God, Ah, God, the dawn! Is here so soon.

The lady's delightful and greatly pleases

Her beauty draws to her many gazes,

Yet in her heart love loyally blazes,

Ah, God, Ah, God, the dawn! Is here so soon.

Note: The Occitan caramehl, the 'pipe' of verse four, is the 'chalumeau' in use in France from the twelfth century. The word refers to various sorts of pipes, some of which were made of cane and featured a single 'reed' cut into the side of the cane itself.

Anonymous Balade (13th century or later)

Mort m'an li semblan que madona? m fai

The glance that my lady darts at me must slay,

Born of her sweet eyes amorous and gay.

If I have none of her let me die alway;

The glance that my lady darts at me must slay.

On my knees I shall beg of her today;

The glance that my lady darts at me must slay.

Humbly before her then I go to pray;

That she solace me, one sweet kiss I'd weigh.

The glance that my lady darts at me must slay,

Born of her sweet eyes amorous and gay.

Her body's white as snow that on glacier lay,

The glance that my lady darts at me must slay.

Fresh is her colour as a rose in May,

The glance that my lady darts at me must slay.

Her hair, red gold, pleases in every way,

Softer and sweeter than a man can say.

The glance that my lady darts at me must slay,

Born of her sweet eyes amorous and gay.

God made none so beautiful nor may,

The glance that my lady darts at me must slay.

Her body I'll love, forever and a day,

The glance that my lady darts at me must slay.

And long as I live I'll not say her nay,

And die for her if I can't have my way.

The glance that my lady darts at me must slay,

Born of her sweet eyes amorous and gay.

Note: Compare Chaucer's 'Your eyen two whole slay me suddenly, I may the beauty of them not sustain. '

Gaucelm Faidit (c. 1170 - c. 1202)

Born in Uzerche, in the Limousin, from a family of knights in the service of the Count of Turenne, he travelled widely in France, Spain, and Hungary. His known patrons include Geoffrey II, Duke of Brittany and Dalfi d'Alvernha; he was at one time in Poitiers at the court of Richard I of England, on whose death he wrote this planh. It is possible, but controversial, that he took part in the Third Crusade from 1189-1191; it seems likely that in 1202 he set out on the Fourth Crusade, as did his then patron, Boniface of Montferrat. After 1202 there is no further mention of him.

Fortz chausa es que tot lo maior dan

A harsh thing it is that brings such harm,

The worst woe, alas, I've suffered: this!

Such that in weeping I will ever mourn,

For so I must sing it now, and utter,

That he the summit and crown of valour,

Noble, brave, Richard, King of the English,

Is dead! Ah, God! What harm, what loss!

What strange words, how grievous to hear!

Firm heart a man needs, that suffers here.

Dead is the king, and a thousand years gone

Since one of such worth was, such vile loss,

Nor was ever a man like him, not one,

So brave, so free, so generous, giving,

That none half as much or more has given,

Since Alexander thrashed Darius;

Not Charlemagne, nor Arthur, as valorous

As he who made men, if truth appear,

Either rejoice in him, or shake with fear.

I marvel that in this false world not one

Generous or courteous man should exist,

None now value good words, fine action,

And why should a man aim high or low?

Now Death has shown us his mighty blow,

Who at one stroke takes the best there is,

All honour, worth, oh, all good we miss;

Now he sees there is none to shield us,

A man may dread his own dying less.

Ai! Brave lordly king, what's to be done

With our vast armies, great tournaments,

Bright courts, and fine gifts and handsome,

If you're gone, that had their captaining?

What's to be done for those suffering,

All those for your good service meant,

Who waited on you, life's ornament?

What's to be done with them, in despair,

Whom you brought to great riches there?

A wretched life and worse death they'll win,

A grievous time, whether far or near;

And Saracen, Turk, Persian, Paynim,

Who, more than all, found you to dread,

Will grow in pride and power instead.

More slowly we'll gain the Sepulchre;

God wills so, for did he not, it's clear,

That if you, lord, had lived, unfailingly,

From Syria they'd have sought to flee.

No longer have I hope, through grace,

Some king or prince might all oversee;

For those who will occupy your place,

Needs have regard to their love of worth,

Your two brave brothers are under earth;

The Young King, noble Count Geoffrey,

And who remains to replace these three?

He'll need a lofty heart, firm thought,

To work good deeds, aid those he ought.

Ah, Lord God, You, our true pardoner,

True God: true man, true life, have mercy on

Him, who has pressing need of it, pardon,

And Lord, oh, look not on his error,

But how he served you, oh, now remember!

Note: Richard I, the Lion Heart, was killed at the minor siege of Chalus-Chabrol in 1199, by a stray bolt from a crossbow. Of his two elder brothers, the Young King, Henry, had died in 1183, and Geoffrey, Duke of Brittany, in 1186. His younger brother John succeeded him as king.
Peire Cardenal (c. 1180-c. 1278)

Peire Cardenal, or Cardinal was born in Le Puy-en-Velay educated as a canon, but abandoned his career in the church for 'the vanity of this world' according to his vida. He began his career at the court of Raymond VI of Toulouse and subsequently travelled widely, visiting the court of James I of Aragon. He died at an advanced age in Montpellier.

Vera vergena Maria

Truest Virgin, our Maria

True of life, and true of faith,

True in truth, and our truth clear,

True in virtue, the true way,

Truest friend, truest mother,

True in love, true mercy's ray,

Through true mercy now declare

Among your heirs I'll be one day.

Lady, grant this, if you please,

That from your son to us flow Peace.

You repair for us the folly

That saw Adam overcome;

You, the star, guiding gently

Pilgrims passing through our land;

You then are the Dawn of day

To which the son of God is Sun,

Shining warmly, shining brightly,

Of true righteousness the sum.

Lady, grant this, if you please,

That from your son to us flow Peace.

You were born in Syria,

Gentle, poor in worldly goods;

Ever humble, pious, purer,

In all done, said, understood,

Fashioned by such a Master,

Without all evil, with all good,

Of such sweet company there

That in you was harboured God.

Lady, grant this, if you please,

That from your son to us flow Peace.

He, who in you puts his trust,

Needs no other for defence,

Such that if the world were lost

He will not be carried hence;

Before your worth, the mightiest

Is humbled, if the man has sense,

And your son will not protest

At your wish, takes no offence.

Lady, grant this, if you please,

That from your son to us flow Peace.

David in his prophecies

Says, in a psalm of old,

That at God's right hand will be,

Near the King that law foretold,

A Queen who in finery

Will be dressed, in vair and gold.

Without fail you are she,

No plea to you can be too bold.

Lady, grant this, if you please,

That from your son to us flow Peace.

Sordello (fl. 1220-1265)

Sordello da Goito or Sordel de Goit, sometimes Sordell, was born in the municipality of Goito in the province of Mantua. Praised by Dante in the De vulgari eloquentia, he is, in the Purgatorio of The Divine Comedy, made the type of patriotic pride, bemoaning the state of Italy, as partially substantiated by the planh below. In 1226, while at the court of Richard of Bonifazio in Verona, he abducted his master's wife, Cunizza, at the instigation of her brother, Ezzelino da Romano. The scandal resulted in his flight (1229) to Provence. He entered the service of Charles of Anjou, and probably accompanied him (1265) on his Naples expedition; in 1266 he was a prisoner in Naples. The last documentary mention of him is in 1269, and he is supposed to have died in Provence.

'. . . . and the spirit all pre-occupied with self,

surged towards him from the place where it first was,

saying: 'O Mantuan, I am Sordello, of your city. '

Dante - Purgatorio VI:72-75
Planher vuelh En Blacatz en aquest leugier so

I wish to mourn Blacatz, now, in skilful song,

With dark, grieving heart, and mortal reason,

Since I lose in him so noble, fair a companion,

And all his worthiness swift to death is gone;

Now I've no hope at all, so mortal the harm,

Of any remedy, no ounce of hope, not one;

Rend his heart: let these barons eat it to a man,

Those without heart since from it heart is won.

Let the Emperor of Rome, who has most need,

Eat first of the heart, if he'd take the Milanese

By force of conquest, they checked him indeed,

He's disinherited, despite his German breed;

Then let the King of France be the next to eat:

And win that Castile he did so rashly cede;

Yet let him not, if his mother be displeased,

For he'll do nothing now, if she's not agreed.

The King of England too, who lacks all valour,

I'd wish to see him eat, gain courage, power,

So that land he dishonoured, he may recover,

Taken by France's King, who knows his blather.

Let Castile's King eat for himself, and another,

Of two kingdoms, king, and yet worth neither;

If he eats, let him do so beneath the cover,

If he's found out, he'll be beaten, by his mother.

Aragon's King, I would that he'd do the same,

Since by so doing he'd free himself from shame,

Who suffers Marseille, Millau; his mortal fame

Wins him no honour, for all he may do or claim.

I'd have the King of Navarre eat then, in name

A king though more a count, so dull his game.

What grief when God seeks to glorify the lame,

Those that lack heart and prove but weak and tame.

The Count of Toulouse, as well, must eat and how,

Knowing what he had, knowing what he has now,

If a second heart can't help his cause somehow,

His own won't help him win what's lost, I trow.

The Count of Provence must eat the last, allow

That, disinherited, he's not worth a sow,

Despite how he yet defends himself, I vow

He'll eat the heart, to bear what makes him bow.

For my song, the barons wish me ill, truly,

Yet know I'll value them as they value me.

Bel Restaur, if I only have your mercy,

I scorn men for whom I prove ill company.

Notes: Blacatz, Blacas de Blacas III (1165-1237), was feudal lord of Aups and a troubadour.

The Roman Emperor is Frederick II of Sicily. The King of France is Louis IX. The King of Castile is Ferdinand III of Castile and Leon. The King of England is Henry III. The King of Aragon is James I, cousin of Count Raymond Berenger IV. The King of Navarre is Thibaut IV of Champagne, the poet king. The Count of Toulouse is Raymond VII. The Count of Provence is Raymond Berenger.

Amilau, or Millau in Aveyron, on the banks of the Tarn, was the major source of earthenware in the Roman Empire, and site of one of the major bridges over the Tarn. Subject to the King of Aragon from 1172, it was taken by Raymond VI of Toulouse in 1222, and James I of Aragon finally ceded his rights to the town in 1258 to France. Marseille which established itself as a republic during the period was at the centre of conflict for decades. In 1246 it finally passed to Charles of Anjou, Count of Provence.

Bel Restaur, 'the lovely one who restores me', or the Fair Healer, may be Guida da Rodez, 1212-1265, daughter of Henri I Count of Rodez. She married Pons VI of Montlaur in 1226. She was then Baronne de Posquieres, de Castries et de Montlaur, and became a patroness of troubadours.

Ai las e que-m fan mei uehls

Alas, what use are my eyes

If they see not what I prize?

Though summer renew and adorn

Itself with leaf and flower

Yet however I sing and mourn,

She, the lady of pleasure,

Cares not for my prayers forlorn,

I'll sing, I'll die a lover,

So loving her, dusk to dawn,

For little do I see her.

Alas, what use are my eyes

If they see not what I prize?

Although love cause me to sigh,

I'll not complain of a thing;

For the noblest, I choose to die,

Though evil for good may sting,

So long as she consents that I

Hope, mercy she yet may bring,

Whatever suffering I may buy,

I'll not claim for anything.

Alas, what use are my eyes

If they see not what I prize?

I die if her love she'll not give,

For I cannot see or dream

Where I can turn or how I'll live,

If she so distant seem,

No other could please I believe,

Nor make me forget, I deem;

Whatever the love I conceive

The more Love shall I esteem.

Alas, what use are my eyes

If they see not what I prize?

Ah, why does she treat me harshly?

She knows how it comforts me,

To sing, and praise one so worthy,

I'm hers, the more painfully

She exalts or abases me,

I can't prevent it, truly,

Far from her I'd not wish to be,

Though living death is my fee.

Alas, what use are my eyes

If they see not what I prize?

So I'll beg my sweet friend in song,

Please don't kill me, sinfully.

If she knows it to be a wrong

When I'm dead she'll grieve for me,

Yet I'd rather she brought death on,

Than live as her pleasure decree,

Worse than death not to see the one

Whom I love so tenderly.

Alas, what use are my eyes

If they see not what I prize?

Guiraut Riquier (c. 1230 - 1292)

One of the last, if not the last, of the true Provencal troubadours, Guiraut survived the Albigensian Crusade and the wars that effectively destroyed the cultured society that had supported them. He served Aimery IV, Viscount of Narbonne, as well as Alfonso el Sabio, King of Castile. He is also believed to have served Henry II, Count of Rodez. He made this somewhat ironic alba in 1257, a fitting coda to the troubadour era.

Ab plazen

From pleasant

Thoughts now and

Amorous,

Sufferings call

Despite all

Carefulness,

I sleep not though I tire,

So toss, and turn, and gyre,

And desire

To see the dawn.

From such gales

Pain assails

Day and night,

Joy now fails

So prevails

Sad heart's plight,

So at night fiercer fire

Consumes my mind entire,

And desire

To see the dawn.

Sad awake

Till daybreak

Watch I keep,

No pleasure

To lie there

Without sleep,

Joyless love deep in the mire;

So that with sighs I respire,

And desire

To see the dawn.

Bringing harm

Night wears on,

It would seem.

Such chagrin

I've not known

No sweet dream,

For I can't see her I admire,

Though to comfort her I aspire,

And desire

To see the dawn.