Do you know why my love is so
sincere?
Troubador Verse
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.
It's not to my taste, I tell you,
Eating, drinking, sleeping, when
I hear voices cry: 'Set to! '
From either side, hearing then
Horses neighing in the gloom,
And cries of 'Help me! ', 'Aid me! ' too,
And into the grassy ditch's tomb
Fall great and small to their doom,
Seeing the corpses twice run through
By lances on which pennants loom.
Love would have lovers chivalrous,
Good with weapons, eager to serve,
Noble in language, generous,
Knowing how to act and observe
Both outdoors and within,
According to the powers they're given.
Such as are pleasant company, then,
Refined and courteous men.
She that in bed such love does win,
Is cleansed forever of her sin.
Noble Countess, you are the best
That's seen or ever will be seen,
Men say, compared with all the rest
The noblest lady on earth, I mean,
High-born Beatrice,
Fine lady in acts and worthiness,
Fountain from which flows all goodness,
And beauty all peerless,
Your rich fame is in such excess
Of all others you appear mistress.
One of high lineage,
In whom is every beauty,
I love, am loved by her deeply;
And she grants me courage,
So I'll not superseded be
By some other, presumptuously.
Barons, go pawn freely
All your castles, towns and cities,
Before ever you halt your armies.
Papiol, go swiftly
To Yea-and-Nay and gaily;
Say they're too long at peace.
Notes: Yea-and-Nay is Richard I of England, younger brother of the Young English King, Henry.
Papiol is Bertran de Born's court minstrel, jongleur or joglar.
Ai! Lemozis, francha terra cortesa,
Ah, Limousin! Country free and courtly,
I'm glad of this honour you receive,
Since joy and worth, repose and gaiety,
Courtesy, gallantry and sweet ease
Are come to us, may they never leave;
To serve her well we must quickly see
In what ways we might court this lady.
Gifts and tasks and ornaments freely
Aid love, as water fish in the sea,
Or as instruction, prowess, bravery,
Do courts, wars, tourneys, and weaponry;
Who claims both brave and skilled to be,
Does ill if he promises to deceive,
Since Lady Guiscarda's here directly.
Note: Guiscarda was the wife of the Viscount of Comborn, and from Bourgogne. His friendship with her caused a rift between Bertran and Madonna Maent (Maeut de Montaignac, the wife of Talairan, brother of Count Elias V of Perigord 1166-1205. The name was later spelt Talleyrand! )
Giraut de Bornelh (c. 1138 - 1215)
Giraut or Guiraut, also Borneil or Borneyll, was born to a lower class family in the Limousin, probably in Bourney, near Excideuil. Connected with the castle of the Viscount of Limoges, his skill earned him the nickname of Master of the Troubadours. He may have accompanied Richard I and Aimar V ofLimoges on the Third Crusade. He certainly made a pilgrimage to the Holy Land but perhaps before the Crusade. His most famous poem is this alba, Reis glorios.
Reis glorios, verais lums e clartatz,
Glorious king, true light and clarity,
Almighty God, Lord, in your charity,
Be a true help now to my friend!
For I've not seen him since day's end,
And soon it will be dawn.
Sweet friend, do you wake or are you sleeping?
Sleep no more, now, you must be waking!
For in the east I see a star rise
Day-bringer, star familiar to my eyes,
And soon it will be dawn.
Sweet friend, I sing now and I call to you!
Sleep no more: I hear the bird sing too
That goes to seek day in the greenery,
I fear you may be harmed by jealousy,
And soon it will be dawn.
Sweet friend, for me now go to the window
And gaze on the stars from earth below
And see how I am your true messenger!
If you will not, it is you will suffer,
And soon it will be dawn.
Fair friend, since I parted from you,
I've not slept, nor ceased praying too,
I pray to God, who's the son of Mary,
To give you to me in sweet loyalty,
And soon it will be dawn.
Fair friend, you begged me not to sleep
There at the threshold, but a true watch keep
On all through the night till it is day.
Now my song and presence you dismay,
Yet soon it will be dawn.
Fair friend, I am in so rich a way
I wish no more for the dawn of day,
For the noblest ever born of mother
I hold and embrace, so they're no matter
Not jealous fool or dawn.
Peire Raimon de Toulouse (fl. 1180-1220)
Peire Raimon de Tolosa or Toloza was from the merchant class of Toulouse. He became a jongleur and spent time at the courts of Alfonso II of Aragon, William VIII of Montpellier, and probably, Raymond VI of Toulouse. He also lived in Italy (Lombardy and Piedmont), at the courts of Thomas I of Savoy, Guglielmo Malaspina, and Azzo VI of Este. Azzo's daughter Beatriz was the addressee of one of his poems. This poem of fin'amor, perfect or true love, is one of the more comprehensive statements of the troubadour ideal.
De fin'amor son tot mei pensamen
On true love are all my thoughts bent
And my desires and my sweetest days,
With true and faithful heart I'll serve always,
To live close to Amor I do consent,
And in simplicity I'll serve him still
Though my service bring me only ill,
Since they are painful and dangerous
The torments Love grants his followers.
Yet to me Love has such honour sent
Since my heart's firmer truer in its ways
Than any other man; and if it seldom says
Who it loves that's for fear of ill intent;
Should her sweet smile, face, eyes fail to tell,
And her fine and noble manners as well,
Her gaiety, and fair speech, miraculous,
Who she is to those who are connoisseurs!
And since your actions are so nobly meant
Humble, in trembling, my love I phrase,
For there is no lover as faithful always
As I to you, Lady, through this world's extent.
Through audacity, through pride I know full well
I sin, in loving you: often my eyes must fill,
With tears, for to direct my heart is ruinous
Towards one who is so high among the first.
Alas! A man cannot yearn and yet absent
Himself from where he'd most deeply gaze,
Or throw off sorrow and his spirits raise,
But swiftly seeks what his hope shall dent.
And know, lady, that the more my tears well,
The more love grows for you and my goodwill,
A sweet pleasant thought's born in my heart thus
Who, night and day, love's thoughts cannot disperse.
I dare to ask that your mercy, pity be lent
To one who finds no equal in these days,
To you; yet if one grants you service and aid,
Fair Lady, his own true gain is consequent.
And as you are, of all, most beautiful,
Most worthy, my service shall be more careful,
Than ever it was, no less continuous
The love for your dear honour I rehearse.
Sweet lady, I desire and want you still
More than the world, for true love draws
Me to the lovely body I praise in verse.
Refuge grants Rambertis de Buvalel,
To worth and merit, and so evermore
In joy and gaiety all here shall immerse.
Anonymous Aubes (12th-13th century)
Quan lo rossinhols escria
While the nightingale sings away
To his mate both night and day
I'm with my sweet friend always,
Under the flower.
Till the watchman on the tower
Cries loudly: Lovers, now arise!
I see the dawn, and day's clear skies.
En un vergier sotz fuella d'albespi
In a deep bower under a hawthorn-tree
The lady clings to her lover closely,
Till the watchman cries the dawn he sees,
Ah, God, Ah, God, the dawn! Is here so soon.
'Please God, now, night fail us not cruelly,
Nor my friend be parted far from me,
Nor day nor dawn, let the watchman see!
Ah, God, Ah, God, the dawn! Is here so soon.
Fine gentle friend, let us kiss, you and I,
Down in the meadow, where sweet birds sigh,
And all to each other, despite jealous eye.
Ah, God, Ah, God, the dawn! Is here so soon.
Fine gentle friend, we'll have sweet loving,
In the garden, where the small birds sing,
Till the watch his pipe sets echoing,
Ah, God, Ah, God, the dawn! Is here so soon.
Out of the sweet air that rises from my
Dear friend who's noble, handsome, and bright,
By his breath I'm touched, like a ray of light. '
Ah, God, Ah, God, the dawn!
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.
It's not to my taste, I tell you,
Eating, drinking, sleeping, when
I hear voices cry: 'Set to! '
From either side, hearing then
Horses neighing in the gloom,
And cries of 'Help me! ', 'Aid me! ' too,
And into the grassy ditch's tomb
Fall great and small to their doom,
Seeing the corpses twice run through
By lances on which pennants loom.
Love would have lovers chivalrous,
Good with weapons, eager to serve,
Noble in language, generous,
Knowing how to act and observe
Both outdoors and within,
According to the powers they're given.
Such as are pleasant company, then,
Refined and courteous men.
She that in bed such love does win,
Is cleansed forever of her sin.
Noble Countess, you are the best
That's seen or ever will be seen,
Men say, compared with all the rest
The noblest lady on earth, I mean,
High-born Beatrice,
Fine lady in acts and worthiness,
Fountain from which flows all goodness,
And beauty all peerless,
Your rich fame is in such excess
Of all others you appear mistress.
One of high lineage,
In whom is every beauty,
I love, am loved by her deeply;
And she grants me courage,
So I'll not superseded be
By some other, presumptuously.
Barons, go pawn freely
All your castles, towns and cities,
Before ever you halt your armies.
Papiol, go swiftly
To Yea-and-Nay and gaily;
Say they're too long at peace.
Notes: Yea-and-Nay is Richard I of England, younger brother of the Young English King, Henry.
Papiol is Bertran de Born's court minstrel, jongleur or joglar.
Ai! Lemozis, francha terra cortesa,
Ah, Limousin! Country free and courtly,
I'm glad of this honour you receive,
Since joy and worth, repose and gaiety,
Courtesy, gallantry and sweet ease
Are come to us, may they never leave;
To serve her well we must quickly see
In what ways we might court this lady.
Gifts and tasks and ornaments freely
Aid love, as water fish in the sea,
Or as instruction, prowess, bravery,
Do courts, wars, tourneys, and weaponry;
Who claims both brave and skilled to be,
Does ill if he promises to deceive,
Since Lady Guiscarda's here directly.
Note: Guiscarda was the wife of the Viscount of Comborn, and from Bourgogne. His friendship with her caused a rift between Bertran and Madonna Maent (Maeut de Montaignac, the wife of Talairan, brother of Count Elias V of Perigord 1166-1205. The name was later spelt Talleyrand! )
Giraut de Bornelh (c. 1138 - 1215)
Giraut or Guiraut, also Borneil or Borneyll, was born to a lower class family in the Limousin, probably in Bourney, near Excideuil. Connected with the castle of the Viscount of Limoges, his skill earned him the nickname of Master of the Troubadours. He may have accompanied Richard I and Aimar V ofLimoges on the Third Crusade. He certainly made a pilgrimage to the Holy Land but perhaps before the Crusade. His most famous poem is this alba, Reis glorios.
Reis glorios, verais lums e clartatz,
Glorious king, true light and clarity,
Almighty God, Lord, in your charity,
Be a true help now to my friend!
For I've not seen him since day's end,
And soon it will be dawn.
Sweet friend, do you wake or are you sleeping?
Sleep no more, now, you must be waking!
For in the east I see a star rise
Day-bringer, star familiar to my eyes,
And soon it will be dawn.
Sweet friend, I sing now and I call to you!
Sleep no more: I hear the bird sing too
That goes to seek day in the greenery,
I fear you may be harmed by jealousy,
And soon it will be dawn.
Sweet friend, for me now go to the window
And gaze on the stars from earth below
And see how I am your true messenger!
If you will not, it is you will suffer,
And soon it will be dawn.
Fair friend, since I parted from you,
I've not slept, nor ceased praying too,
I pray to God, who's the son of Mary,
To give you to me in sweet loyalty,
And soon it will be dawn.
Fair friend, you begged me not to sleep
There at the threshold, but a true watch keep
On all through the night till it is day.
Now my song and presence you dismay,
Yet soon it will be dawn.
Fair friend, I am in so rich a way
I wish no more for the dawn of day,
For the noblest ever born of mother
I hold and embrace, so they're no matter
Not jealous fool or dawn.
Peire Raimon de Toulouse (fl. 1180-1220)
Peire Raimon de Tolosa or Toloza was from the merchant class of Toulouse. He became a jongleur and spent time at the courts of Alfonso II of Aragon, William VIII of Montpellier, and probably, Raymond VI of Toulouse. He also lived in Italy (Lombardy and Piedmont), at the courts of Thomas I of Savoy, Guglielmo Malaspina, and Azzo VI of Este. Azzo's daughter Beatriz was the addressee of one of his poems. This poem of fin'amor, perfect or true love, is one of the more comprehensive statements of the troubadour ideal.
De fin'amor son tot mei pensamen
On true love are all my thoughts bent
And my desires and my sweetest days,
With true and faithful heart I'll serve always,
To live close to Amor I do consent,
And in simplicity I'll serve him still
Though my service bring me only ill,
Since they are painful and dangerous
The torments Love grants his followers.
Yet to me Love has such honour sent
Since my heart's firmer truer in its ways
Than any other man; and if it seldom says
Who it loves that's for fear of ill intent;
Should her sweet smile, face, eyes fail to tell,
And her fine and noble manners as well,
Her gaiety, and fair speech, miraculous,
Who she is to those who are connoisseurs!
And since your actions are so nobly meant
Humble, in trembling, my love I phrase,
For there is no lover as faithful always
As I to you, Lady, through this world's extent.
Through audacity, through pride I know full well
I sin, in loving you: often my eyes must fill,
With tears, for to direct my heart is ruinous
Towards one who is so high among the first.
Alas! A man cannot yearn and yet absent
Himself from where he'd most deeply gaze,
Or throw off sorrow and his spirits raise,
But swiftly seeks what his hope shall dent.
And know, lady, that the more my tears well,
The more love grows for you and my goodwill,
A sweet pleasant thought's born in my heart thus
Who, night and day, love's thoughts cannot disperse.
I dare to ask that your mercy, pity be lent
To one who finds no equal in these days,
To you; yet if one grants you service and aid,
Fair Lady, his own true gain is consequent.
And as you are, of all, most beautiful,
Most worthy, my service shall be more careful,
Than ever it was, no less continuous
The love for your dear honour I rehearse.
Sweet lady, I desire and want you still
More than the world, for true love draws
Me to the lovely body I praise in verse.
Refuge grants Rambertis de Buvalel,
To worth and merit, and so evermore
In joy and gaiety all here shall immerse.
Anonymous Aubes (12th-13th century)
Quan lo rossinhols escria
While the nightingale sings away
To his mate both night and day
I'm with my sweet friend always,
Under the flower.
Till the watchman on the tower
Cries loudly: Lovers, now arise!
I see the dawn, and day's clear skies.
En un vergier sotz fuella d'albespi
In a deep bower under a hawthorn-tree
The lady clings to her lover closely,
Till the watchman cries the dawn he sees,
Ah, God, Ah, God, the dawn! Is here so soon.
'Please God, now, night fail us not cruelly,
Nor my friend be parted far from me,
Nor day nor dawn, let the watchman see!
Ah, God, Ah, God, the dawn! Is here so soon.
Fine gentle friend, let us kiss, you and I,
Down in the meadow, where sweet birds sigh,
And all to each other, despite jealous eye.
Ah, God, Ah, God, the dawn! Is here so soon.
Fine gentle friend, we'll have sweet loving,
In the garden, where the small birds sing,
Till the watch his pipe sets echoing,
Ah, God, Ah, God, the dawn! Is here so soon.
Out of the sweet air that rises from my
Dear friend who's noble, handsome, and bright,
By his breath I'm touched, like a ray of light. '
Ah, God, Ah, God, the dawn!
