No More Learning

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.

Amongst others I feign the status quo,

While the day seems tedium congealed:

And it grieves me the God of Everything

Won't let me cut short the time I mourn,

Since lovers languish, waiting over-long:

Moon and Sun your course begins to pall!

It grieves me your light so seldom yields to blackness.

Now go to her, my song, to her I belong,

For Arnaut cannot show her treasures all,

Much greater wit he'd need to reveal her richness.

Note: Pound utilises an issue of translation regarding the last line of verse 1, E jois le grans, e l'olors d'enoi gandres in Canto XX.

Anc ieu non l'aic, mas elha m'a

I have him not, yet he has me

Forever in his power, Amor,

And makes me sad, bright: wise, a fool,

Like one who can no way retreat.

He's no defence who loves indeed,

He obeys Love's decree

For he serves and woos her, she,

So I'll await | like fate

My gracious fee

Should it come to me.

I say little of what's inside me,

I tremble lest I shake with fear;

Tongue may feign, but heart wills too

That which it dwells on sadly:

So I languish, but silently,

For as totally

As earth's bordered by sea

None I may state | of late

Compares equally

To that coveted she.

I know her worth so certainly

That I can no way turn elsewhere;

Which simply makes my poor heart brood,

When sun sets or rises swiftly:

I dare not say who inflames me;

My heart burns me

But my eyes are fed surely,

To contemplate | will sate,

That alone can ease me:

What keeps me alive, now see!

He's a fool who in loose speech

Claims his pains with joy compare,

For slanderers, whom God makes fools,

Never such fancy language seek:

One whispers while another shrieks,

Till Love retreats

That else would be complete;

I obfuscate | debate,

While they bully,

And still love loyally.

But health and joy now fill me

With pleasure that rises there;

Yet from my throat won't issue

For fear she may prove angry,

Since the flame of it yet I feel,

Of Love, that orders me

Never my heart to reveal,

Oft a mistake | fears make,

Loves are lost, not few,

Through poor security.

How many songs light and easy

I'd have made if she would succour

She who gives me joy and takes it,

Now I'm glad, now I'm unhappy,

Because to her will she binds me;

Yet it will make never a plea,

My heart, nor will seek to flee,

But freely I'll state | meets fate:

Should she forget me,

Then fled is mercy.

Tell Miels-de-Ben, if she rate

This fair melody,

Arnaut keeps memory.

Note: Regarding Miels-de-Ben, Better-than-Good, Arnaut's vida says: Et amet una auta dompna de Gascoigna, moiller d'En Guillem de Buonvila, mas non fo crezut qez anc la dompna li fezes plazer en dreich d'amor. 'And he loved a noble woman of Gascony, wife of Lord Guillem de Buonvila, but it was not believed that she ever pleased him with regard to the rights of love. ' Possibly this poem was addressed to her.

Lo ferm voler qu'el cor m'intra

The firm desire that in my heart enters

Can't be torn away by beak or nail

Of slanderer, who'll by cursing lose his soul,

And since I don't dare strike with branch or rod,

Secretly, at least, where I'll have no uncle,

I'll take my joy, in orchard or in chamber.

When I bring to mind that chamber

Where I know to my cost no man enters -

More hostile they are to me than brother, uncle -

No part of me but shivers, to my very nail,

More than a little child that sees the rod,

Such my fear of being hers too much in soul.
Would I were hers in body, and not in soul,

And she admitted me secretly to her chamber!

For it wounds my heart more than blow from rod,

That where she is her servant never enters.

I would be close to her like flesh to nail,

And not heed the warning of friend or uncle.

Never have I loved sister of my uncle

Longer or more deeply, by my soul,

For, as close as is the finger to the nail,

If she pleased, would I be to her chamber.

More can love bend, that in my heart enters,

Me to its will, than the strong some frail rod.

Since there flowered the Dry Rod,

Or from Adam sprang nephew and uncle;

Such true love as that which my heart enters

Has never, I think, existed in body or soul:

Wherever she is, abroad or in some chamber,

My heart can't part from her more than a nail.

So clings to her, is fixed as with a nail,

My heart, as the bark cleaves to the rod,

She is of joy my tower, palace, chamber;

And I love her more than brother, or uncle:

And twice the joy in Paradise for my soul,

If any man there through true loving enters.

Arnaut sends out his song of nail and uncle,

For her joy, who arms him with rod, his soul,

His Desire, that with worth her chamber enters.

Notes: Arnaut here invents the sestina, with its fixed set of words ending the lines of each of the six-line stanzas, but in a different order each time; numbering the first stanza's lines 123456, then the words ending the following stanzas appear in the order 615243, then 364125, then 532614, then 451362, and 246531. These six rhymes then appear in the tercet as well.

The manuscript reading of the last two lines has proved contentious, a grat de lieis que de sa vergua l'arma, son Dezirat, c'ab pretz en cambra intra is assumed. The subject of the verb 'enters' is then ambiguous. For 'uncle' read guardian, or keeper, throughout.

The music for this sestina survives in manuscript.

En cest sonnet coind'e leri

To this light tune, graceful and slender,

I set words, and shape and plane them,

So they'll be both true and sure,

With a little touch, and the file's care;

For Amor gilds and smoothes the flow

Of my song she alone inspires,

Who nurtures worth and is my guide.

Each day I grow better, purer,

For I serve and adore the noblest woman

In all the world - so I claim, and more.

I'm hers from my feet to my hair,

And even if the cold winds blow

Love reigns in my heart, and it acquires

Heat that the deepest winters hide.

A thousand masses I hear and offer,

Burn oil, wax candles in my hand,

So that success God might ensure,

For striving alone won't climb her stair.

When I gaze on her hair's golden glow

And her body's fresh delicate fires,

I love her more than all else beside.

I love her deeply and long for her,

Fear desire may lose her, if one can

Prove loving too well a fatal flaw!

For her heart floods mine everywhere,

It never subsides, that tidal flow;

Usury gains her the man she hires:

Worker, workshop, and all inside.

I'd not wish to be Rome's Emperor,

Nor Pope, nor Luserna's castellan,

If I can't return and haunt her door,

For whom my heart must crackle and flare;

And if she soothes not pain and sorrow

With a kiss, before the year expires,

She'll have damned herself, and I'll have died.

Despite all the torment that I suffer

To renounce true love is not my plan,

Though I'm exiled to a desert shore,

These words shall rhyme the whole affair:

More than ploughmen, lovers toil so;

In the tale, Monclis no more admires

Audierna, than I for my love have sighed.

'I net the breeze, I am Arnaut,

Who with an ox the swift hare tires,

And swims against the rising tide. '

Notes: I have altered the position of the reference to Luserna in the poem for clarity. Its location is unknown but might have been Lucena, northwest of Castellon in Valencia.

Moncli (Monclis, Monclin, Mondis) and his lady, Audierna, are presumed to be characters in a lost romance.

I offer here an alternative translation of the tercet to fulfil Arnaut's rhyming scheme according to my choice of end-rhymes. The original is far more musical, as you can gather from the text at the start of this selection of his verse.

Peire Vidal (1175 - 1205)

Reputedly the son of a furrier, he started his career as a troubadour in the court of Raimon V of Toulouse and was also associated with Raimon Barral the Viscount of Marseille, King Alfonso II of Aragon, Boniface of Montferrat, and Manfred I Lancia. He may have taken part in the Third Crusade. Legend has it that he fled the court of Barral after stealing a kiss from his wife Alazais de Rocamartina, that is Roquemartine near Aix, and that he dressed in wolf-skins to woo Loba, the 'she-wolf', Loba de Penautier of Carcassonne, and was savaged by her dogs, and that he subsequently married the daughter of the Byzantine Emperor in Cyprus.

Ab l'alen tir vas me l'aire

I breathe deeply, draw in the air,

That blows here from Provence!

It pleases me, all I countenance

From there: if good report I hear,

I listen smiling to all that's said,

And for one word ask a hundred:

So good it is to hear good things.

There's no place so sweet as there

From the Rhone as far as Vence,

Between the sea and the Durance,

There's no such sweet joy anywhere.

So that with that true race I find,

I've left my joyful heart behind,

With her who leaves men smiling.

Let no man say the day's not fair

That leaves of her a memory,

Of her joy's born, by her set free.

And whatever man praises her,

Speaks well of her, he tells no lie!

For she's the best, all men say ay,

And the noblest of all existing.

And if I can speak and do my share,

I've her to thank, who every learning

Granted me, and all understanding,

And made me a singer debonair,

And anything I make that's fine,

From her sweet lovely body's mine,

True-hearted thought including.

Ges quar estius

Though spring's glorious

Lovely and sweet,

I'm not complete,

Painful defeat

Is mine today,

Through her who holds my heart in play;

So I prize not April or May,

For she blithely turns away

One I honour and love always.

And if I've lost my songs so sweet

Those fair words and fine melodies,

I used to make when love was there,

Happiness is I know not where.

Not once have I thus

Broken accord,

Order ignored,

Unless I'm floored,

Too low to grace

Her lovely body's dwelling place;

So I fear slanderers have their say,

Who cause ladies and lovers dismay,

Lower us, and drive all joy away,

And each and every way harm me.

Yet, as I hide my love cleverly,

My worth shall seem more than it is;

Still, opportunity I miss.

No Greek among us

Has dealt such pain

Cruelty plain,

I would maintain,

As that I've seen:

In such misery and fear I've been,

My eyes scarcely move it seems

When I see her, fear so extreme,

Sweet, gracious words lacking I mean.

Since with pleasure I'm out of tune,

And nothing can I force her to,

For I know that I'll win nothing,

Except by praising, and by loving.

People and rivers

I've sung their praise

Five hundred ways,

All of my days,

To those who treat me

Worse than they could, though you'd agree

They'll hear nothing but good from me.

And if I wished them to fare badly,

Then I could, may God preserve me,

Show pride and scorn towards them too;

It's not in my power so to do,

For at a smile and a glance,

I forget sorry circumstance.

Yet now it's grievous,

Conversation;

Death's my portion,

Sense and reason

Flee in the night;

Not one song I write,

I've lost the power to rhyme aright.

And since I've neither heart nor might,

How should I sing or find delight?

For from her there's no response,

And when I seek an amorous song,

It flies off, there's none to hear me:

See then how you must persuade me!

Ashamed among us

One's always grave,

Yet mercies save,

And orders brave

From heart that's true,

Bring joy to lovers through and through.

And he who takes what love brings too,

Though little it grant of hope's fine brew,

Cannot fail to find pleasures new

And in fresh joy rich recompense:

So that I praise the honours sent,

The gifts, neck, hands that make me kiss,

My remedy for all amiss.

My Vierna, bitter it is,

The sight of you I often miss.

Lord Agout, though scant praise is this,

You'll gild my song, such as it is.

Plus que. l paubres quan jai el ric ostal

No more than a beggar dare complain,

Lodging at some rich man's address,

Fearing its lord, of his wretchedness;

No more dare I, of my mortal pain.

Since she disdains me, I must suffer,

Whom I long for more than another.

No more do I dare to ask her mercy,

So great my fear that she'll grow angry.

As we gaze in awe at some great window,

Shining in beauty against the splendour,

Seeing her, my heart so sweet is rendered

I forget myself in her beauty's glow.

With the stick I cut, Love brings me pain,

For, one day, in his royal domain,

I stole a kiss for the heart to remember:

Oh, for the man who can't see his lover!

God forgive, yet she's but a criminal

My lovely lady, who grants no aid,

Knowing my love, my heart, are laid

At her feet, and her service is my all.

Why summon me, and greet me so gently,

Then deny me good from all that hurts me!

Does she believe she might banish me so?

Yet the pain's no less than I used to know.

For a true man must endure, it's natural,

Rights and wrongs, both sense and folly:

Though it's hard to achieve a victory

When he's banished from his own hall!

I'm in exile if I should leave my lover:

I'll not: for I love her more than ever.

If I renounced her love, she'd scorn me:

She ought not, for love it is adorns me.

I'm utterly in my lady's power,

If she does me ill I can do nothing,

Her pleasure, to me, is so sweet and thing,

I forget myself, my cares, the hour.

Never a day but love drowns my heart,

Since arrows of joy from her eyes dart.

And when my heart thinks of its great good,

I want none else in this world, nor should.

Do you know why my love is so sincere?

I've seen none so noble, of such beauty,

Or so fine, who grants me such bounty,

For so worthy a friend she does appear,

And if I'd her naked at last beside me,

I'd be more than the lord of Excideuil,

Who maintains his worth where others fail,

For none but Geoffrey could so prevail.

It goes ill with the four kings of Spain,

Since they fight rather than make peace,

Do that, and their worth could but increase:

Free, loyal, courteous, they speak plain,

Yet their fame might be even greater

If they aimed their war against another,

That fierce foe that denies our law,

Until Spain owns to one faith once more.

Bels Castiat, lord, I'm sad, you'll gather.

I see you not: she sees me no more,

Na Vierna, who is all my faith and law.

Now I'll give the ancient saying here:

Whoever starts well then lets things fall,

Had better not start such things at all.

Notes: The Lord of Excideuil is Richard Coeur-de-Lion. Geoffrey is his brother, Count of Brittany.

Castiatz is possibly Raimond V, Count of Toulouse (1148-1194)

Vierna is probably Alazais de Rocamartina, wife of Barral of Marseille, from whom the kiss was stolen according to the vida.

The four kings of Spain are those of Aragon, Castille, Leon and Navarre.

Estat ai gran sazo

I've felt, for so long, so

Bitter, and known such pain,

But now I feel joy again,

More than carp or swallow,

For my lady tells me

Now again she'll take me,

Once more, as her lover.

Ah! How sweet the hour

When she deigned to will

I might enjoy hope still.

May God pardon me though,

My joy I can't regain,

Lest swiftly once again,

To that prison I go,

Where her beauty holds me,

There is all courtesy

There it's joyous and sweet;

Which is why I'm replete

Without earthly treasure,

Should I bring her pleasure.

How great my pleasure too,

When I can see her face;

I cease to know the place,

Her love-filled eyes in view;

I'm tangled then, and won,

Conquered and so undone,

Can't turn my eyes away,

Nor ever from her stray,

And when I can see her

All is joy for me there.

Lady, by God above,

Since I am yours wholly,

Willingly and humbly,

Grant me of your love,

Your mercy, and pity,

Your prayers, and loyalty,

And do yourself honour:

For I'm burdened by fear,

That I might not aspire

To one whom I desire.

And my heart's rancorous

Towards one who is evil,

Who sends me to the devil,

She, with her Count Rufous,

She's a wolf all over,

Now a count's her lover

Her emperor's on his way,

Who sang her praise all day,

Through the whole world too:

But liars never speak true.

God save the Marquis,

His lovely sister, save,

Her loyal love and brave,

It conquers me anew,

Better still holds me too.

King's daughter, be it so,

A false love fled away

I've a better one today,

Who knows my worth, and who

Does and says things sweet and true.

Notes: The 'wolf' is Loba de Penautier. The vida claims that Vidal called himself Lop because of her and carried the badge of the wolf. He was hunted with dogs in the mountains of Cabaret, and wore a wolfskin to give the scent to the dogs and masters. He was hunted down, beaten and carried half-dead to Loba and her husband who laughed at his folly.

The Count, her lover, was probably Roger of Foix (1188-1223).

The illustrious marquis and his sister are Boniface 1 Marquis of Montferrat and his sister Azalais who married Manfred II, Marquis of Saluces in 1182.

Raimbaut de Vaqueiras (c1155- fl. 1180-d. c1207)

Raimbaut de Vaqueiras, or Riambaut de Vaqueyras, came from Vacqueyras near Orange, Vaucluse. He spent most of his career as court poet and close friend of Boniface I of Montferrat. He joined the Fourth Crusade in 1203 and was present at the siege of Constantinople in 1204. He is presumed to have died in an ambush by Bulgarian forces.

Altas ondas que venez suz la mar

Deep waves that roll, travelling the sea,

That high winds, here and there, set free,

What news of my love do you bring to me?

What passes there? Never his ship, I see.

And ah, God of Amour!

Now you bring joy, and now dolour.

Ah, sweet breeze, from there, true, you sigh,

Where my love joys, sleeps, and suspires.

A sip of his sweet breath for me, send by.

My lips are parted, so deep my desires.

And ah, God of Amour!

Now you bring joy, and now dolour.

False love he makes, slave of a far country,

Now laughter and jests turn to misery.

I'd not dreamed my friend would ask of me

That I grant him such love as he did seek.

And ah, God of Amour!

Now you bring joy, and now dolour.

Gaita be, gaiteta del chastel

Keep a watch, watchman there, on the wall,

While the best, loveliest of them all

I have with me until the dawn.

For the day comes without our call,

New joys all,

Lost to the dawn,

The dawn, oh, the dawn!

Watch, friend, watch there, and call and cry,

I'm rich indeed, all I wish have I.

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.