No More Learning

Would I were a pilgrim at this hour,

So staff and cloak from her tower,

She'd gaze on with her lovely eyes!

What joy it will be to seek that day,

For love of God, that inn afar,

And, if she wishes, rest, I say,

Near her, though I come from afar,

For words fall in a pleasant shower

When distant lover has the power,

With gentle heart, joy to realise.

Sad, in pain, would I go away,

Should I not see that love afar.

For I don't know when I may

See her, the distance is so far.

So many the roads and ways lower,

That indeed I can say no more,

But let all things be as she likes.

The delights of love I never may

Enjoy, if not joy of my love afar,

No finer, nobler comes my way,

From any quarter: near or far.

So rich and high is her dower,

That there in the Saracen's tower

For her sake I would be their prize.

God that made all that goes or stays

And formed this love from afar

Grant me the power to hope one day

I'll see this love of mine afar,

Truly, and in a pleasant hour,

So that her chamber and her bower,

Might seem a palace to my eyes.

Who calls me covetous, truth to say,

Is right, I long for a love afar,

For no other joy pleases me today

Like the joy in my love from afar.

Yet what I wish is not in my power,

It is my godfather's curse, so sour,

That I love, yet love should be denied.

For what I wish is not in my power,

Cursed my godfather's word so sour,

Who has ruled my love should be denied.

Quan lo rius de la fontana

When the sweet fountain's stream

Runs clear, as it used to do,

And there the wild-roses blow,

And the nightingale, on the bough,

Turns and polishes, and makes gleam

His sweet song, and refines its flow,

It's time I polished mine, it would seem.

Oh my love, from a land afar,

My whole heart aches for you;

No cure can I find, for this no

Help but your call, I vow,

With love's pangs sweetest by far,

In a curtained room or meadow,

Where I and the loved companion are.

I shall lack that forever though,

So no wonder at my hunger now;

For never did Christian lady seem

Fairer - nor would God wish her to -

Nor Jewess nor Saracen below.

With manna he's fed as if in dream,

Who of her love should win a gleam!

No end to desire will my heart know

For her, whom I love most, I vow;

I fear lest my will should cheat me,

If lust were to steal her from me too.

For sharper than thorns this pain and woe

The sadness that joy heals swiftly,

For which I want no man's pity.

Without parchment brief, I bestow

On Filhol the verses I sing now,

In the plain Romance tongue, that he

May take them to Uc le Brun, anew.

They rejoice in it, I'm pleased to know,

In Poitou, and in Berry,

In Guyenne, and Brittany.

Note: Uc le Brun is Uc VII of Lusignan, who had taken the cross for the Second Crusade in 1147. Filhol is the name of the joglar (jongleur, or minstrel)

No sap chanter qui so no di

No one can sing where no melody is,

Or fashion verse with words unclear,

Or know how the rhymes should appear,

If his logic inwardly goes amiss;

But my own song begins like this:

My song gets better, the more you hear.

Let no man wonder about me,

If I love one I've never known,

My heart joys in one love alone,

That of one who'll never know me;

No greater joy do I welcome gladly,

Yet I know not what good it may be.

I am struck by a joy that kills me,

And pangs of love that so ravish

All my flesh, body will perish;

Never before did I so fiercely

Suffer like this, and so languish,

Which is scarce fitting or seemly.

How often do I close my eyes

And know my spirit is fled afar;

Never such sadness that my heart

Is far from where my lover lies;

Yet when the clouds of morning part,

How swiftly all my pleasure flies.

I know I've never had joy of her,

Never will she have joy of me,

Nor promise herself, nor will she

Ever now take me as her lover;

No truth or lie does she utter,

To me: and so it may ever be.

The verse is good, I have not failed,

All that is in it is well placed;

He whose lips it may chance to grace,

Take care it's not hacked or curtailed

When Bertran in Quercy's assailed,

Or, at Toulouse, the Count you face.

The verse is good, and they'll be hailed

For something they'll do in that place.

Marcabru (fl. 1130-1150)

Marcabru was a powerful influence on later poets who adopted the trobar clus style. He experimented, as here, with the pastorela. Among his patrons were William X of Aquitaine and, probably, Alfonso VII of Leon. Marcabru may have travelled to Spain in the entourage of Alfonso Jordan, Count of Toulouse, in the 1130s. In the 1140s he was a propagandist for the Reconquista, of Spain from the Moors.

A la fontana del vergier

In an orchard down by the stream,

Where at the edge the grass is green,

In the shade of an apple-tree,

By a plot of flowers all white,

Where spring sang its melody,

I met alone without company

One who wishes not my solace.

She was a young girl, beautiful,

Child of the lord of that castle;

But when I thought the songbirds' call

Might, from its tree, make her heart light,

And sweet the fresh season all,

And she might hear my prayers fall,

A different look did cross her face.

Her tears flowed, the fount beside,

And from her heart her prayer sighed.

'Jesus, King of the World,' she cried,

'Through you my grief is at its height,

Insult to you confounds me, I

Lose the best of this world wide:

He goes to serve and win your grace.

With you goes my handsome friend,

The gentle, noble, and brave I send;

Into great sorrow I must descend,

Endless longing, and tears so bright.

Ai! King Louis to ill did tend

Who gave the order and command,

That brought such grief to my heart's space! '

When I heard her so, complaining,

I went to her, by fountain's flowing:

'Lady,' I said 'with too much crying

Your face will lose its colour quite;

And you've no reason yet for sighing,

For he who makes the birds to sing,

Will grant you joy enough apace. '

'My lord,' she said, 'I do believe

That God will have mercy on me

In another world eternally,

And many other sinners delight;

But here he takes the thing from me

That is my joy; small joy I see

Now that he's gone so far away. '

Cercamon (fl. c. 1137-1152)

Born apparently in Gascony, his real name unknown, he probably spent most of his career in the courts of William X of Aquitaine and Eble III of Ventadorn. He was the inventor of the planh, the Provencal dirge, and some circumstantial evidence points to his having died on crusade as a follower of Louis VII of France.

Quant l'aura doussa s'amarzis

When the sweet air turns bitter,

And leaves fall from the branch,

And birds their singing alter

Still I, of him, sigh and chant,

Amor, who keeps me closely bound,

He that I never had in my power.

Alas! I gained nothing from Amor

But only had pain and torment,

For nothing is as hard to conquer

As that on which my desire is bent!

No greater longing have I found,

Than for that which I'll lack ever.

In a jewel I rejoice, in her

So fine, no other's felt my intent!

When I'm with her I dumbly stutter,

Cannot utter my words well meant,

And when we part I seem drowned,

Loss of all sense and reason suffer.

All the ladies a man saw ever

Compared to her aren't worth a franc!

When on earth the shadows gather,

Where she rests, all is brilliant.

Pray God I'll soon with her be wound,

Or watch her as she mounts the stair.

I startle and I shake and shiver

Awake, asleep, on Love intent,

So afraid that I might wrong her,

I don't dare ask for what I meant,

But two or three years' service downed,

Then she'll know the truth I offer.

I live nor die, nor am made better

Nor feel my sickness though intense,

Since with her Love I want no other,

Nor know if I'll have it or when,

For in her mercy does all abound,

That can destroy me or deliver.

It pleases me when she makes me madder,

Makes me muse, or in gaping rent!

It's fine if she plays the scorner

Laughs in my face, or at fingers' end,

For, after the bad, the good will sound,

And swiftly, should that be her pleasure.

If she wants me not, I'd rather

I'd died the day my service commenced!

Ah, alas! So sweet she did murder

Me, when she gave her Love's assent,

And tied me with such knots around,

That I desire to see no other.

All anxiously I delight in her,

For whether I fear or court her then

Is up to her; or be false or truer,

Trick her, or prove all innocent,

Or courteous or vile be found,

Or in torment, or take my leisure.

But, who it may please or who astound,

She may, if she wants, retain me there.

Say I: scarce courteous is he crowned,

The man who shall of Love despair.

Rigaut de Berbezilh (fl. 1140-1163)

Rigaut, also Richart or Richartz, de Berbezilh, also Berbezill or Barbesiu, French: Rigaud de Barbezieux, Latin: Rigaudus de Berbezillo, was of the petty nobility of Saintonge. He was a major influence on the Sicilian School and is quoted in the Roman de la Rose. The Planh below was previously attributed, by Pound and others, to Bertran de Born.

Si tuit li dol e? lh plor e? lh marrimen

If all the grief and woe and bitterness

The pain, the harm and all the misery

Yet heard of in this grievous century

Were set together, they would seem but light

Against the death of the young English king.

He leaves worth clouded, and youth dolorous,

The world obscure, shadowed and in darkness,

Void of all joy, full of despair and sadness.

In pain and sadness, full of bitterness

Are left behind the courteous soldiery,

The troubadours, the subtle minstrelsy,

In Death they find a foe of greater might,

Who's taken from them the young English king,

That made the freest hand seem covetous.

There are no more, nor were in past excess

Of this world, the tears to drown such sadness.

Relentless Death, so full of bitterness,

Well may you boast now the most knightly

Chevalier you have taken, best of any,

For there is nothing worthy of delight

That belonged not to this young English king;

If it pleased God, it were better for us

That he should live than many of the rest

Who offer us no joy but grief and sadness.

From this pale world, so full of bitterness

Love flies, his deceits must be taken lightly,

Nothing is his indeed but pains us swiftly;

And less than yesterday is each day's light.

All saw themselves in this young English king

Who of the world was the most virtuous;

Gone is his body, amorous in finesse,

Leaving us pain, and discord, and great sadness.

He whom it pleased in all our bitterness

To come to earth to raise us from misery,

And died His death, to bring us victory,

Him do we ask, of mercy, Lord of right

And of humility, that the young English king

He please to pardon, if pardon be for us,

And with honoured companions grant him rest,

There where there is no grief, nor any sadness.

Note: The young English king was the charismatic Henry Plantagenet (1155-1183) an elder brother to Richard Coeur de Lion, and twice crowned king in his father Henry II's lifetime, a Capetian custom. He predeceased his father, and so never wielded power, dying of dysentery while on campaign in the Limousin.

Bernart de Ventadorn (fl. 1145-1175)

According to the troubadour Uc de Saint Circ, Bernart was the son of a baker at the castle of Ventadour or Ventadorn, in the Correze. His first patron was Viscount Eble III of Ventadorn. He composed his first poems for his patron's wife, Marguerite de Turenne. Uc de Saint Circ has him ultimately withdrawing to the Cistercian abbey of Dalon and dying there.

'Like to the lark ascending, in the air,

first singing and then silent,

content with the final sweetness that sates her. '

Dante - Paradiso XX:73-75
Can vei la lauzeta mover

When I see the lark display

His wings with joy against the day,

Forgetting, fold then fall away,

As sweetness to his heart makes way,

Such great envy then invades

My mind: I see the rest take fire,

And marvel at it, for no way

Can my heart turn from its desire.

Ah, I so dearly wished to know

Of love, yet so little learn,

For I cannot keep from loving her

Who will not have me, though I burn.

She stole my heart, and all of me,

And she herself, and worlds apart;

Lacking herself, now nothing's left

But longing and the willing heart.

For 'I' has no power over 'I'

Nor has had since the day I know

I let myself gaze in her eye,

The mirror that pleased me so.

Mirror, now I'm mirrored in you,

Profound sighs are killing me,

I lost myself as he did too

Narcissus gazing in the deep.

Of every lady I despair!

And in them I can place no trust!

Those I once would seek to cheer

Leave them cheerless now I must.

Seeing her then who won't have me,

She who destroys me and confounds,

I doubt them all and can't believe,

Knowing them other than they're found.

My lady shows herself, not to my good,

A woman indeed, scorns my behest,

Since she wishes not what she should

But what's forbidden her finds best.

Now I'm fallen from all grace,

I've done well on the asses' bridge!

And don't know why I'm in disgrace,

Except I've asked a world too much.

Mercy's lost, and gone from sight

And now I can retrieve it not.

Since she who owns to it of right

Has none to give, and where's it sought?

How little it seems to those who see -

What would she want with me poor wretch? -

That without her nothing's here for me,

She lets me die who've no help left.

Since with my lady there's no use

In prayers, her pity, or pleading law,

Nor is she pleased at the news

I love her: then I'll say no more,

And so depart and swear it's done!

I'm dead: by death I'll answer her,

And off I'll go: she'll see me gone,

To wretched exile, who knows where?

Tristram, none will hear of me:

Off I'll go, who knows where?

I'll sing no more, resigned I'll be,

And banish joy and love of her.

Note: Pound adapts and utilises phrases from verse 1, 'qual cor mi vai: that goes to my heart' at the start of Canto XCI; 'es laissa cader: lets fall' and 'de joi sas alas: with joy, its wings' in Notes for Canto CXVII et seq.

Tant ai mo cor ple de joya

So full is my heart of joy now,

All is changed for me.

Flowering red, white, and yellow,

The winter seems to be,

For, with the wind and rain, so

My fortune's bright I see,

My songs they rise, and grow

My worth proportionately.

Such love in my heart I find,

Such joy and sweetness mine,

Ice turns to flowers fine

And snow to greenery.

I go without my clothes now,

One thin shirt for me,

For noble love protects now

From the chilly breeze.

But he's mad who'll not follow

Custom and harmony,

So I've taken care I vow

Since I sought to be

Lover of loveliest,

To be with honour blest:

Of her riches I'd not divest

For Pisa, for Italy.

From her friendship I'm severed

Yet my faith's so in place,

That I can barely counter

The beauty of her face.

I cannot hope to wed here

Such happiness and grace,

On the day when I see her

Weightlessness I taste.

To Love my heart's as near

As body to spirit clear,

Though she is far from here,

Fair France where I am placed.

I'm full of hope that's true now.

But that's little use to me,

She holds me in suspense I vow

Like a ship upon the sea.

From sad thoughts that follow,

I cannot win free.

Each night, head on pillow,

I turn fretfully.

More pain of love I suffer

Than Tristan the lover,

Who felt much dolour

For Iseult, her beauty.

Oh God were I a swallow

Flying through the air,

Rising from the depths below

Where I now despair.

Sweet and joyous lady, know

Without your loving, there,

I die, my heart it breaks so

The pulse is scarcely there.

My lady for your grace

I clasp my hands and pray

Lithe body and fresh face,

Have brought me many a care.

The world and its affairs

Could not absorb me so,

That when men spoke of her

My heart it would not glow,

My face not brighten there.

When I speak of her also

You'll quickly judge I care

Seeing my laughter grow.

My love for her's so deep

Often too I must weep,

So that my sighs taste sweet

Sweeter for tears they share.

Messenger, go now, fleet

Of foot, tell those you meet

Of all the pain and grief

It brings, the suffering I bear.

Can par la flors josta. l vert folh

When flowers are in the leaves green

And the sky's serene and clear,

And the song of birds rings keen,

Sweetening my heart, as I wake here,

Then since birds sing with their art

I who have greater joy at heart,

Must sing true, since my daily bread

Is joy and song, all that's in my head.

She whom I want most on this earth,

And love the more with heart and faith,

She joys to hear and keep my words,

Gathers and stores my pleas always.

And if men die by true love's art,

Then I must die, since in my heart

I bear her love, so true and fine,

All are false to one whom she'll loyal find.

I know when I retire at night

That I shall barely sleep a wink.

My sleep I lose, forego it quite

For you, my lady, as I think!

And where a man hides his treasure

There will his heart reside forever.

Lady I can't leave, if I see you not,

No sight is worth the beauty of my thought.

When I recall how I loved so

One who was false, without mercy,

I tell you such sorrow I did know

There was no path to joy for me.

Lady, for whom I sing and more,

Your lips wounded me to the core,

With a sweet kiss of love heart-true,

Grant joy, save me from mortal sorrow too.

Such as the proudest hearts may feel

When great joy or great good they see!

But I a finer spirit reveal,

And truer when God is good to me.

For when I'm on the fringes of love,

From fringe to centre then I move.

Thanks, lady: no one equals me.

I lack not, if God saves you for me.

Lady, if I should see you not,

Do not grieve more than I grieve,

Know well I see you in my heart!

He strikes at you because of me.

But if he strikes through jealousy,

Take care the heart he cannot reach.

If he vex you, annoy him too,

Then he'll not win good for ill from you.

God, guard my Sweet-Sight from harm

Whether I'm near to her or far.

God, my lady and Sweet-Sight save,

That's all I wish, no more I crave.

Note: Pound adapts the last lines of verse 3 'S'eu no vos vei, domna, don plus me cal, Negus vezers mo bel pesar no val' as 'And if I see her not. . . no sight is worth the beauty of my thought' in Canto XX.

Can la frej' aura venta

When fresh breezes gather,

That from your country rise,

I seem to feel no other

Air but that of Paradise,

Through love of a lover

Who binds me with love's ties,

Where my will I tether,

And my true heart lies,

All others I despise,

But her who draws me ever!

If of her beauty present

Her clear face and sweet eyes,

I'd seen that merest content,

I'd still feel this surprise.

Deceit's not my intent,

For I've naught to realise;

Yet why should I repent,

For once she said, with sighs,

'On the true man love relies,

While the weak twig is bent'.

Women it seems to me

Make a great mistake,

By which true love is rarely

Returned for true love's sake.

I ought to speak out freely

With words though that will take,

For it can scarcely please me

When the tricksters rake

More love in than is at stake

For the lover who loves truly.

Lady what will you do

With me who loves you so?

Would you treat me so ill I too

Die of longing? Oh,

Good and noble, you,

Your face should sweeter show,

Light my heart through and through!

Great pain I suffer and woe,

Yet merit no hurt, ah no,

For I can't turn from you.

If there were none to annoy,

No vile slanderer, or thief,

Then love I might employ

But they cast it in my teeth:

It's human to care and not be coy,

On occasion, and seek relief,

But it's privately my belief

Pain has no other alloy

Than 'Good luck lives in joy,

And bad luck lives in grief. '

I am not one to disdain

The good that God may do,

For in that week, the very same

That I came away, it's true,

She said clearly, saying my name,

That my songs please her too.

Would all Christians plain

Could have such joy anew,

As I felt, and feel all through,

For all else but this is vain.

I'll believe her again

If she assures me it's true;

But if it's not, I'll disdain

To trust her, and you, and you.

Can la verz folha s'espan

When the greenery unfolds

And the branch is white with flower,

With sweet birdsong in that hour

My heart gently onward goes.

When I see the blossoming trees

And hear the nightingale in song,

Then how can a man go wrong,

Who chooses loving and is pleased.

For I have one I've chosen

Who gives me strength and joy.

And if all the world now holds -

All those under heaven's power,

Were gathered in some sweet bower,

I'd only wish for one I know.

Only she my heart can please,

Who makes me sigh all day long,

So at night my sleep is gone,

Not that I desire to sleep.

She, the slender dainty one,

True heart, does true speech employ.

If I were brought to her stronghold,

Prisoned by her in some tower,

And daily ate my morsel sour,

Happily I'd there grow old,

If my desire she granted me!

She should try to do no wrong:

If she made me yearn too long,

Neither life nor death I'd see:

Life for me as good as done,

While there with death I'd sadly toy.

Pel doutz chan que? l rossinhols fai

To the sweet song of the nightingale,

At night when I am half-asleep,

I wake possessed by joy complete,

Contemplating love and thinking;

For this is my greatest need, to be

Forever filled with joy and sweetly,

And in joy begin my singing.

Who seeks to know the joy I feel,

If such joy were heard and seen,

All other joy but slight would seem

Compared with mine: vast in its being.

Others preen and chatter wildly,

Claim to be blessed, rich and nobly,

With 'true love': I've twice the thing!

When I admire her body hale

Well-formed, in all respects I mean,

Her courtesy and her sweet speech,

For all my praise I yet gain nothing;

Though I took a year completely

I could not paint her truthfully

So courtly is she, of sweet forming.

You who think that I can't fail,

Not realising her spirit keen

Is open and is friendly, even

Yet her body is far from being,

Know, the best messenger I see

From her is my own reverie,

That recalls her fairest seeming.

Lady, I'm yours, today, every day,

In your service my self I'll keep,

Sworn, and pledged to you complete,

As I have been always in everything.

And as you are first of joys to me,

So the last joy too you will be,

As long as I'm still living.

I know not when I'll see you again;

But I am grieved and sad to leave.

For you I spurned (don't now harm me,

I beg of you) the court and king,

Now I will serve you there entirely,

Among the knights, among the ladies,

All sweet, true, and humble beings.

Huguet, my messenger, go, kindly

Sing my song and sing it freely,

To the Norman Queen go warbling.

Note: 'True love' in verse two, is fins amor, noble love, the troubadour ideal.

La rossinhols s'esbaudeya

The nightingale sings happily

Hard by the blossom on the bough,

And I am taken by such envy

I can't help but sing any how;

Knowing not what or whom either,

For I love not I, nor another.

Such effort I make that this will prove

Good verse too, though I'm not in love!

They gain more from love who pay

Court by deceiving, in their pride,

Than he who humbly makes his way,

And ever the suppliant does abide,

For Amor has no love for the man

Who is honest and noble as I am.

My loss is all the more complete,

That I am not false nor use deceit.

But as the bough bends beneath

The tempest that makes it sway,

I did to her my whole will bequeath,

She who assails me every way.

So she maddens and destroys me,

Sunk to low-born acts, completely,

Yet I'll give her my eyes to blind,

If any wrong she in me can find.

She often accuses me and tries me,

And lays false charges now, at will,

Yet whenever she acts vilely

All the fault's laid at my door still!

She quietly makes sport of me,

With her own faults damning me!

Truly they say, and it's my belief:

'All are my brothers! ' cries the thief.

No man who sees her and has faith

In her sweet looks, her lovely eyes;

Could ever believe, in any way

Her heart is evil: her mind, it lies:

But waters that slide calmly by

Drown more than those that roar and sigh.

They deceive who seem so fair,

Oh, be wary of the debonair.

From every place she might be

I absent myself most carefully,

And so as not her form to see

I pass, eyes closed, and nervously.

So he follows Love, who avoids it,

And it pursues the man who flees it.
But I'm determined to pass it by,

Till I see it again in my lady's eye.

That will not be, if she torments me,

Peace and a truce are all I'm asking,

For it grieves me to exit limply,

And lose the good of all this suffering.

May she guard me and keep me hers,

And if we are not mutual lovers,

No other love it seems will shine

As bright to light this heart of mine.

As I am, would he were taken too,

My Auvergnat, then we'd make two,

For he could no more fare

Far from Bel Vezer of Beaucaire.

Tristan, though it seem not so to you,

Yet I love you more than I used to do.

Can l'erba fresch'e? lh folha par

When fresh leaves and shoots appear,

And the blossom gleams on the bough,

And the nightingale high and clear

Raises his voice, and sings aloud,

I joy in him, and enjoy the flowers,

And joy in my lady and I, for hours;

By joy on all sides I'm caught and bound,

But this is joy, and all other joys drowned.

Alas, how I die of musing deeply!

Many a time I'm so deep in thought,

Ruffians could abduct me, neatly,

And of the business I'd know naught.

By God, Love, you find me an easy matter,

With few friends, and no other master.

Why did you not constrain my lady

Before desire took me completely?

I marvel now how I can bear

Not to reveal to her my longing.

For when I behold my lady there,

Her lovely eyes are so charming

I can scarce stop myself running to her.

And so I would, were it not for fear,

For never has one so shaped and made

For love such diffidence displayed.

I love my lady and hold her dear,

And dread her, and respect her so,

I never dare speak of myself for fear,

Nor seek anything, nor ask aught, no;

Yet she knows of my pain and dolour,

And, when it pleases her, does me honour,

And, when it pleases her, I do with less,

So no reproach worsens my distress.

If I could work the enchanter's spell,

I'd make children of all my foes,

So none could ever spy or tell,

Nor do aught that might harm us both.

Then I'd know I'd see my noble one,

Her sweet eyes, fresh complexion,

And kiss her mouth in such a way

It would show for a month and a day.

It would be sweet to find her alone,

While she slept, or pretended to,

Then a sweet kiss I'd make my own,

Since I'm not worthy to ask for two.

By God, lady, little of love we've won!

Time goes by, and the best is done.

We need secret signs, you and I:

Boldness fails, so let cunning try!

A man should blame his lady indeed,

When she deters him from loving,

For endless talk about love may breed

Boredom, and set deception weaving.

For one can love and lie elsewhere,

And lie all the more smoothly where

There's no proof. Good lady deign

To love me, and I'll not lie or feign.

Go, messenger, no less esteem me

If I'm afraid to go see my lady.

Lo tems vai e ven e vire

Time comes, and goes, and runs away,

In days, and months, and so in years;

And I, alas, have naught to say,

For my longing ever one appears.

It's ever one, and never falters,

For I love one, it never alters,

Of whom I've had no happiness.

Since she mocks me every way,

Grief and harm have come to me;

She has sat me down to play

At a game where I lose doubly -

For that love has always died

That's only upheld on one side -

Unless she make peace, I confess.

I should indeed lay the blame

On myself, with all due reason,

For never was born one so lame,

Who serves idly, in every season.

And if she'll not chase folly away

My folly will double, for they say:

A fool fears not till he's in distress.

I will be a singer no more,

Nor be of Lord Eble's school,

For what is all this singing for?

There's no worth in melody's rule;

Whatever I do, whatever I say

I can't make things go my way,

Nor do I dream of any progress.

Though I make a show of joy,

My heart within is full of woe.

Who ever did penance employ

Before he sinned? I tell you though,

The more I beg, the harsher she,

If she's not gentler soon with me,

There'll be a parting I would guess.

Yet it's good that she subjects me

To her whole will utterly,

For if she does wrong, and slowly,

The sooner she'll take pity;

For, or so the scriptures say,

Through good luck, a single day

May a whole century redress.

Lifelong, I'll never leave her,

As long as I'm hale and whole;

The flesh may go hang after

It has parted from the soul;

And though she is never hasty,

She'll get no blame from me,

If she makes amends, I'll bless.

Ah, sweet love, all my desire,

Fine, slim, neat your body stands,

Fresh complexion, subtle fire,

Whom God shaped in his hands!

I'll long for you forever,

No other gives me pleasure.

No other love do I profess.

Sweet and most gracious treasure,

May He who formed you in measure

Grant joy desired, now, in excess!

La douza votz ai auzida

The sweetest voice I have heard,

Of the woodland nightingale,

And into my heart has leapt its word

So that all the weight of care

And the evil blows love deals me,

Are soothed and softened sweetly.

And great good does it do me there,

Another's joy in my travail.

Of base life indeed is the man

Who with joy finds never a place,

Where love is no part of the plan

That drives his heart and his desire;

For all that exists with joy abounds,

Rings out, and with its song resounds:

Park, orchard, meadow, all the choir

Of heath, plain and woodland chase.

Alas for me, whom love forgets,

Who stray from the proper track;

A share of joy would be mine yet,

But sorrow it is that troubles me;

And I can find no place to rest,

For it turns all joy to bitterness.

And never think that I feel lightly,

If some courtesy I seem to lack.

A false and a wicked woman,

Of base birth, a foul traitress,

Betrayed herself and this man,

She cut the very stick that beat her.

Yet whenever she is arraigned

It is the man who gets the blame.

And the latecomer gets more from her,

Than I who have waited longest.

I had served her well and nobly,

Till she showed me a fickle heart;

And since she offers naught to me,

I'm a fool if I serve her more.

Service without recompense -

A Breton's hope has equal sense -

Makes a slave of a noble lord,

By custom and usage, set apart.

God grant him a foul fate

Who repeats men's idle chatter!

For love's joy were my estate

Were it not for the tellers of tales.

A fool treats his mistress cruelly,

I'll pardon her if she'll pardon me,

Liars they are, whom naught avails,

If they made me speak badly of her.

Corona, carry these verses for me

To Narbonne, there, to my lady;

Of perfection her life never fails,

And no man can speak badly of her.

Chantars no pot gaire valer

Singing proves merely valueless

If the song moves not from the heart,

Nor from the heart can song progress,

If it lacks noble love, heart's dream.

So of all songs mine reign supreme,

For with love's joy I seek to bind

Mouth, and eyes, and heart, and mind.

May God never grant me power

Not inspired by true love's art!

If I never knew how to gain its flower,

Without every day enduring pain,

I'd be of good heart still, that's plain,

And my joy is therefore more alive,

Since I'm of good heart, and for it I strive.

Through ignorance, the fools decry

Love, but that does it little hurt,

For Love will in no way fail, say I,

If it's a love that's not commonplace.

And that's not love, nor of its race,

But only has its form and name,

That loves nothing except for gain.

If I am to speak only what's true,

I know from where such errors start:

From those women who love men too

Only through greed: they are for hire.

Would I were false in this, a liar!

I speak of it, do I not, so harshly,

And yet that I lie not saddens me.

In its agreement and its assent

Two noble lovers love's apart,

For nothing can come of their intent,

If their desire is not mutual.

And he is in truth a natural

Who reprehends her for her longing,

Or praises to her what is not fitting.

My good hope is rightly placed,

When she from whom I'd least wish to part,

Shows me her beauteous face,

Pure, gentle, noble and true,

A king's salvation she'd prove too,

Lovely, graceful, of pleasing body;

I, with nothing, she renders wealthy.

I love and fear naught more than her,

I would receive the bitterest dart,

If only it gave my lady pleasure;

For it seems like Christmas Day

If her sweet spiritual eyes should stray

Towards me: yet so infrequently,

That each day's like a hundred to me!

Fine, natural verse, and good, I say,

To him who can clearly understand it,

If he hopes for joy, the better the fit.

Bernard de Ventadour understands it,

Speaks it; makes it, and wishes joy of it.

Peire d'Auvergne (fl. 1157-1170)

A townsman's son from the Bishopric of Clermont-Ferrand, Peire d'Alvernhe was a professional troubadour. He was at the court of Sancho III of Castile in 1157-58, and appears at Piuvert in the Aude in 1170.

Ab fina joia comenssa

With noble joy commences

This verse that rhymes sweet words,

Where nothing harms the senses;

Yet I'd rather none might learn them

If my song does not concern them:

For may no wretched singer there,

Who'd render any song absurd,

Turn my sweet tune to braying.

Of Love I have remembrance

And its sweet speech: no more;

But by patient attendance

I hope joy will come my way.

Life demands as much, I say,

Since often, with a little care,

Things are better than before,

And we eat well without paying.

I've fine semblance of her favour

For with grace she welcomes me,

But otherwise not a savour,

Nor indeed should I aim so high,

Nor such rich joy accrue that I

Then feel like an emperor.

It's enough that she speaks to me,

And listens to what I'm saying.

In me she inspires such reticence,

For of herself so little she gives;

Joy which displays such diffidence,

Hardly puts a man at his ease.

Yet let her retain me, as she please,

For my suffering is not so rare.

I'll not reproach her, as she lives,

My love there's no dismaying.

I've done penance without sinning,

And it's wrong if I'm not forgiven;

For I set my heart, from the beginning,

On her mercy, though she grant it not.

I think ill will take me, for hope forgot

May lead a poor lover to despair.

As I have hope of being shriven,

In our Lord's name, hear me praying.

Assured of every worthiness,

Is my person, if she ennobles me,

Through whom is merit in excess,

And he's a fool who would suggest,

That any other should grant me rest.

No sweeter a daughter anywhere,

By as much as the weather's stormy,

Through Adam's lineage went straying.

I commend to the Counts of Provence

This verse, and here at Narbonne,

Where joy has its cognisance,

My thanks to those by whom it reigns.

For here I find one who retains

Me as her lover, my lady fair;

Not in the fashion of some Gascon,

But in our own way we're playing.

Raimbaut d'Orange (c1144-d. 1173)

Raimbaut, Lord of Orange, Corethezon and other lands in Provence and Languedoc, was the first troubadour originating from Provence proper. As a minor, he was a ward of the lords of Baux and Marseilles. He died in 1173, possibly a victim of the widespread epidemic of that year.

Ar resplan la flors enversa

Now the flowers gleam, in reverse,

Among the jagged peaks and hills.

What flowers? Of snow, frost, and ice,

That jagged cut, and wound, and sting;

And dead the calls, cries, trills and whistles,

Among the twigs, and leafless bristles.

Yet joy is green: with joyous face,

I see the low shrivelled, and the base.

For in such a way do I reverse

All this, that fine plains look like hills,

I take for flowers the frost and ice,

In the cold I'm warm as anything,

And thunderclaps are songs and whistles,

And full of leaf the leafless bristles.

With joy I'm firmly bound in place,

Seeing nothing that's low or base,

Except a people, born our reverse,

As though nourished on the hills,

Who serve me worse than frost and ice,

For each one with his tongue can sting,

And murmurs evilly and whistles.

Sticks are no good or sharpened bristles,

Or threats; it's a joy to them, that race,

When they can do what men call base.

From kissing you, though I meet reverse,

No plains prevent me nor do hills,

Lady, nor do the frost and ice,

But powerlessness, ah, that's the thing.

Lady, for whom I sing and whistle,

Your lovely gaze, like sharpened bristle,

So chastens me with joy, no trace

Dare I own of low desire or base.

I have forged onwards in reverse,

Searching peaks, ravines and hills,

Like one tortured by frost and ice,

Whom the cold torments and stings,

So that no more would song or whistle

Rule me than lawless monks the bristle.

But now, Praise God, joy holds, a space,

Despite the slanderers, false and base.

May my verse, which I so reverse

That it's unhindered by woods or hills,

Go, where one feels not frost or ice,

Nor does the cold have power to sting.

To my mistress may he sing and whistle,

Clear, so her heart feels the sharp bristle,

Who can sing nobly, with joy and grace,

For it suits no singer vile and base.

Sweet lady, may love, joy, and grace

Unite us two, despite the base.

Jongleur, less joy is in this place,

For, unseen, I fear lest you are base.

Non chant per auzel ni per flor

I do not sing for bird or flower,

Nor for snow, now, nor for ice,

Nor for warmth or the cold's power,

Nor for the fields' fresh paradise;

Nor for any pleasure do I sing

Nor indeed have I been a singer,

But for my mistress, all my longing,

For on earth none lovelier may linger.

Now have I parted from one worse

Than any ever seen or found,

To love the fairest one on earth,

The lady of most worth, I'm bound.

And this I'll do my whole life long,

For I'm in love with no other;

And I believe her liking's strong

For me, so it seems to me her lover.

Lady, I shall have much honour

If ever the privilege is granted

Of clasping you beneath the cover,

Holding you naked as I've wanted;

For you are worth the hundred best,

And I'm not exaggerating either.

In that alone is my joy expressed,

More than if I were the emperor!

I'll make my mistress my lord and lady,

Whatever may be the outcome now,

For I drank that secret love, fatally,

And must love you evermore, I vow.

Tristan, when Iseult the Fair, his lover,

Granted his love, he could do no less,

And by such covenant I so love her,

I cannot escape it: she's my mistress.

I'd earn more worth than any other,

If such a nightgown were given me

As Iseult handed to her lover,

For it was never worn, certainly.

Tristan, you prized that noble gift:

And I am seeking for such another.

If she I long for grants me her shift,

I'll cease to envy you, fair brother!

See, lady, how God gives his aid

To she who of love is not afraid:

For Iseult stood there in great dread,

Then in a moment her heart said:

Convince your husband to believe

That no man born of woman may,

Claim he has touched you: I grieve

You can say the same of me today!

Carestia, don't you dare to leave

That place without bringing away

Part of the joy that she can weave

Who grants me more joy than I can say.

Beatritz de Dia (c1140-fl. c. 1175)

Known only as the Comtessa de Dia, the Countess of Dia, in contemporary documents, she was almost certainly named Beatriz, and probably the daughter of Count Isoard II of Dia north-east of Montelimar. According to her vida, she was married to Guillem or Guilhem de Poitiers, Count of Viennois, but was in love with and sang about Raimbaut of Orange, 1146-1173. Her song A chantar m'er de so qu'eu no volria is the only canso by a trobairitz, or female troubadour, to survive with its music intact. The score is found in Le manuscript di roi, a collection of songs copied circa 1270 for Charles of Anjou, the brother of Louis IX.

Estat ai en greu cossirier

I've been in great distress of mind,

About a knight whom I possessed,

How I've loved him to excess

I want known, throughout all time;

Now I feel myself betrayed

Because I did not tell my love,

In great torment so I prove,

In bed or in my clothes arrayed.

Would that I might hold my knight

Till morning naked in my arms,

Intoxicated by my charms

He'd think himself in paradise;

For more pleased with him am I

Than Floris was with Blancheflor:

I grant him my heart, my amour,

My eyes, my mind, and my life.

Sweet friend, so good so gracious

When shall I have you in my power,

And lie with you at midnight hour,

And grant you kisses amorous?

Know, great desire I nurture too

To have you in my husband's place,

As soon as you grant me, with grace,

To do all that I'd have you do.

Note: Floris and Blancheflor are Floris and Blancheflour lovers in a popular romance found in many different vernacular languages and versions. It first appears in Europe around 1160 in 'aristocratic' French, and was popular well into the fourteenth century. The poem tells of the troubles of two lovers: Blancheflour, or Blancheflor ('white flower') being a Christian princess abducted by Saracens and raised with the pagan prince Flores or Floris or Floire ('belonging to the flower') The Muslim/Christian tale is often set in Andalusia where there is a famous Granadan variant. Aucassin and Nicolette has a similar context.

A chantar m'er de so qu'ieu no volria

Now I must sing of what I would not do,

Complain of him I confess to loving true;

I love him more than any the world can view:

Yet my grace and courtesy own no value,

Nor my beauty, my worthiness, my mind;

I'm deceived, betrayed, as would be my due,

If the slightest charm in me he failed to find.

I solace myself with this, I was false never

My friend, to you, neither in acts nor manner;

I love you more than Seguis loved Valensa;

To conquer you in love gives me more pleasure,

Dear friend, for, of all, you are the worthiest;

Yet proud to me in deeds and what you utter,

Though you seem humble towards all the rest.

I marvel at the pride your heart dares display

To me, friend, the cause why I weep all day,

And it's wrong that another draws you away,

Whatever she does, whatever she might say,

And however it may recall the true beginning

Of our love: the good God wishes in no way

That any fault of mine should cause its ending.

From the great gallantry lodged in your heart,

And the rich worth you own, my torments start;

For I know no lady near to you or afar,

Desiring love, who towards you would not draw:

Yet you, dear friend, are of such fine judgement

You ought to know who the sincerest are;

And remember, remember our agreement.

My worth should help me and my nobility,

My beauty, and more my own heart's loyalty;

That's why I send now, wherever you may be,

This song to act as a messenger from me;

I wish to know, my sweet and gentle friend,

Why to me so harsh and full of cruelty;

I'd know if it's pride, or ill-will in the end.

And I'd have him say, this messenger I send,

That excess of pride works harm on many men.

Notes: Seguis and Valenca, or Seguin and Valence, a pair of lovers in a lost romance, are mentioned also by Arnaut de Mareuil.

The covinens, the 'agreement', mentioned at the end of the fourth verse is the standard term for the concordia that ended conflicts in eleventh and twelfth-century Occitania. Here it is used to reinforce the sense of a binding love.

Arnaut de Mareuil (late 12th century)

The name is spelt variously, from Maroil, to Miroilh. The vida has Arnaut as a poor clerk from the castle of Mareuil in Perigord. He was a joglar at the court of the Countess of Burlatz, Azalais of Toulouse, daughter of Count Raimon V. In 1171 she married Roger II, Viscount of Beziers and Cacassonne, called Talliafero, or Taillefer. She was loved by Alfons II of Aragon, d. 1196. Arnaut was dismissed, and found refuge with Guillem VIII de Montpellier, d. 1202, a noted sponsor of joglars.

Bel m'es quan lo vens m'alena

It's sweet when the breeze blows softly,

As April turns into May,

And in tranquil night above me,

Sing the nightingale and jay.

When each bird in his sweet language,

In the freshness of the morn

Sings, joyful of his advantage,

At ease with his mate, at dawn.

As all things on earth have joy so,

Are happy when leaves appear,

Then I'll recall a love I know

And rejoice in all the year.

By past usage and by nature,

It seems now that I must turn

Where soft winds revive the creature,

And heart must dream and yearn.

Whiter she is than Helen was,

The loveliest flower of May,

Full of courtesy, sweet lips she has,

And ever true word does say.

Open-hearted, her manner free,

Fresh colour and golden hair,

God who grants her all sovereignty

Preserve her, the best is there.

I'd be blessed, if she'd not treat me

To endless quarrelling here,

But grant me a kiss discretely

For my service costs me dear.

Then we'd go on a brief journey,

Often, a fine short play;

For her sweet body has led me

Willingly on that way.

Arnaut Daniel (fl. 1180-1210)

Arnaut Daniel de Riberac, of Ribeyrac in Perigord, was praised, in Dante's Purgatorio, by Guido Guinicelli, as il miglior fabbro, the better maker, and called the Grand Master of Love by Petrarch. Riberac is on the left bank of the Dronne in the Dordogne.

'Ieu sui Arnautz qu'amas l'aura

e chatz la lebre ab lo bueu

e nadi contra suberna. '

'I am Arnaut who nets the breeze

and with an ox pursues the hare

and swims against the rising seas. '

Sols sui qui sai lo sobrafan que? m sortz

I am the one that knows the pain that flows

Through loving hearts that suffer love's excess,

For my desire is ever so firm and whole

I have never denied her, never wandered

From one I so desired at once and ever:

Far from her, now, I call to her urgently,

Though when she's here I know not what to say.

My blindness, my deafness to others shows

That only her I see, and hear, and bless,

And I offer her no false flatteries so,

For the heart more than the mouth gives word;

That in field, plain, hill, vale, though I go everywhere

I'd not discern all qualities in one sole body,

Only hers, where God sets them all today.

Many a goodly court my presence knows,

Yet in her there's more that does impress,

Measure and wit and other virtue glows

Beauty, youth, good manners, actions stir,

Of courtesy she has well-learnt her share

Of all displeasing things I find her free

I think no good thing lacking anyway.

No joy for me were too brief that arose

From her: I hope that she might guess,

For of me she'll otherwise not know,

Since the heart such words can scarce utter,

That the Rhone, its swollen waters there,

No fiercer than my heart flows inwardly,

Nor floods more with love, when on her I gaze.

Solace and joy seem false from those

Other girls, none share her worthiness,

Her solace exceeds all others though,

Ay, alas, ill times if I do not have her,

Yet the anguish brings me joy so fair,

For thinking brings desire of her lustily:

God, if I might have her some other way!

No play ever pleased more, you may suppose,

Nothing could bring the heart more happiness,

Than this, of which no evil rumours grow

All publicly, to me alone its treasure;

I speak too openly? Not if it brings no care:

My beauty, by God, I'd lose my tongue and speech,

Rather than trouble you by what I say.

And I pray my song indeed brings you no care,

For if you like both words and melody

What cares Arnaut whom it pleases or shall dismay.

Quan chai la fueilha

When the pale leaves descend

From the high crowns of trees

And the cold airs ascend,

Hazel and willow freeze,

To sweet melodies

The forest is then no friend,

Yet, who may flee,

I long for true Love again.

Though cold it grows,

I will not freeze forever,

In whom love rose

That will my heart deliver

I'll not shiver,

Love hides me from head to toe,

Brings strength rather

And tells me which way to go.

Good is this life

That my delight sustains

Though he who knows strife

May otherwise complain

I know no gain

In changing of my life

All free of pain,

By my faith's, my share of strife.

In true love-making

I find none here to blame,

With others, playing,

There's bad luck in the game,

There's none the same

As her, there's no repeating,

She's one I name

Beyond all equalling.

I'd not go giving

My heart to another love

Lest I find it fleeing

Or from her gaze remove;

I fear not too

That Malspina's rhyming,

Can prove

A nobler than her in seeming.

There's nothing bad there

In she who is my friend;

This side Savoy here

None finer I contend;

Joys without end

She gives and greater

Than Paris gained

In Troy from his Helena.

She is more lovely

She who brings delight,

Than the noble thirty

Finer in every light,

So it is right

That she hear my melody

For she's the height

Of worth, wins all praise truly.

My song take flight,

present yourself to her sweetly,

but for her might

Arnaut might strive more lightly.

Douz braitz e critz

Sweet tweet and cry

Song, tune and trill,

Birds, in their language, hear tell their tale

Each to its mate, in just the way that we

Pray to the dear friends we love here:

So I that love the worthiest

Must make a song so far above the rest

It has no false rhyme, no word in error.

I did not stray, I

Felt no lack of will,

When I first entered the castle's pale,

Where is she I hunger for, my lady,

St Guillelm's nephew's ache was no greater:

A thousand times a day I yawn and stretch

Because of the lovely one, as much the best

As above that ague rates deepest pleasure.

I was well liked, no lie,

My words they left no chill,

No wise man but my choice must hail,

Not copper but pure gold pleased me,

That day I saw my lady, kissed her,

And she her lovely blue cloak pressed

Round me, to set snake-tongues at rest,

And hide what bad mouths deliver.

No branch alive

That bud and blossom fill

That bird's beak trembles like a gale,

Is fresher, no Rouen would suit me,

Or Jerusalem, without my lover,

Hands clasped, I yield to her I confess,

Dover's King her love would honour no less,

Or those of Estela and Pamplona.

God on high,

By whom was forgiven all ill

Committed by Longis, blind as a nail,

May He will that my love and I entwine sweetly,

In the room where we pledged to be together,

Rich pledge from which great joy I expect,

Her sweet body, smiling, kissing, to address,

And gaze at her against the light of the lamp, there.

What, Mouth, do you sigh?

I think you'll have robbed me, would still,

Of such promises as would entail

Honour even for the Emperor of Greece,

Rouen's lord, or Tyre and Bethlehem's ruler:

Yet a fool am I, seeking what I repent, excess,

Since Love has no power to protect me, and less

Wise is the man who does his joy dissever.

The merciless try,

With sharp tongues, poison to distil,

I fear them not, though Galicia's lord, men say,

They forced to sin, whom we may blame it seems

For capturing, on a pilgrimage fair,

The count's son Raymond, and in intent

King Ferdinand wins little true merit yet

If he'll not free nor return him ever.

I would have seen it, but I wait here yet:

I was at the crowning of the good king of Estampa.

Note: Pound quotes part of verse 5 last line 'E quel remir contral lums de la lampa' in Canto VII.

Er vei vermeilhs, vertz, blaus, blancs, gruocs

'I am Arnaut, who weeping goes and sings:

seeing, gone by, the folly in my mind,

joyful, I hope for what the new day brings. . . .

Then he hid himself in the refining fire. '

Dante - Purgatorio XXVI:142-144
I see scarlet; green, blue, white, yellow

Garden, close, hill, valley and field,

And songs of birds echo and ring

In sweet accord, at evening and dawn:

They urge my heart to depict in song

Such a flower that its fruit will be amour,

And joy the seed, and the scent a foil to sadness.

The fire of Love burns in my thoughts so

That desire, always sweet and deep,

And its pains a certain savour bring,

And gentler its flame the more the passion:

For Love requires his friends to belong

To truth, frankness, faith, mercy and more,

For, at his court, pride fails while flattery's harmless.

I'm not altered by time and place though

Or what fate, advice, good or bad, may yield;

And if I give you the lie in anything

Never let her look on me night or morn,

She's in my heart, day-long and night-long,

Whom I'd not wish to lack (for false is the call)

On those shores where Alexander once proved ruthless.

Often my boredom without her I show

And I wish to tell, not leave concealed,

Of her at least some part of this thing,

Since my heart never wavers or is torn:

Since of aught else I never think for long,

Since of what's good I know she's best of all,

Seen in my heart, in Puglia or Flanders' fastness.

I'd wish simply to be her cook and, lo,

Thus receive such wages in that field

I'd live more than twenty years a king,

She makes me so happy, never forlorn:

Such a fool am I: for what do I long?

For I want none of those riches, not all

That Meander and Tigris enclose with all their vastness.