Note: See Marvell's 'To His Coy Mistress' for an
expression
of like sentiment.
Ronsard
Time goes by, my lady: time goes by,
Ah! It's not time but we ourselves who pass,
And soon beneath the silent tomb we lie:
And after death there'll be no news, alas,
Of these desires of which we are so full:
So love me now, while you are beautiful.
Note: Ronsard's Marie was an unidentified country girl from Anjou.
Les Amours de Marie: IX
Marie, the man who'd change the letters of your name
Would find out aimer: so love me then, Marie,
Your name invites you to love, and naturally.
They'll find no pardon that Nature do betray.
If you are willing to pledge me your heart, lover,
I'll offer mine: and so we will grasp entire
All the pleasures of life, and no strange desire
Will make my spirit prisoner to another.
One must love something in this world of ours, mistress,
They who love nothing live, in their wretchedness,
Like the Scythians did, and they would spend their life
Without tasting the sweetness of the sweetest joy.
Nothing is sweet without Venus and her boy:
And when I no longer love, then let me die!
Note: The Scythians at the extreme end of the Empire in Roman times were regarded as living barbaric lives (See Ovid's Tristia and Ex Ponto). Venus' boy is of course Cupid.
Les Amours de Marie: XLIV
Kiss me then Marie: no then, don't kiss me,
But suck my heart from me with your gentle breath:
No, don't suck it from me, but to your caress
Suck my whole soul, from every vein of me.
Yet, do not do so: for what then would I be
Other than an empty phantom after death,
Bodiless on that shore where love is surely less
(Pardon me Dis) than our idlest fantasy?
Marie, while we live let us love each other too,
Love does not reign there among that pallid crew
Those ghosts whose eyelids are sealed in iron sleep.
It's not true that Dis himself loved Persephone.
The unfeeling heart can't know a pain so sweet:
Love reigns on earth above, not beneath our feet.
Note: See Marvell's 'To His Coy Mistress' for an expression of like sentiment.
Sur La Mort de Marie: IV
As in May month, on its stem we see the rose
In its sweet youthfulness, in its freshest flower,
Making the heavens jealous with living colour,
Dawn sprinkles it with tears in the morning glow:
Grace lies in all its petals, and love, I know,
Scenting the trees and scenting the garden's bower,
But, assaulted by scorching heat or a shower,
Languishing, it dies, and petals on petals flow.
So in your freshness, so in all your first newness,
When earth and heaven both honoured your loveliness,
The Fates destroyed you, and you are but dust below.
Accept my tears and my sorrow for obsequies,
This bowl of milk, this basket of flowers from me,
So living and dead your body will still be rose.
Note: Ronsard's later tributes to 'Marie' were written for the Duke of Anjou (the future Henri III) whose mistress Marie de Cleves died in 1574.
Sonnets Pour Helene Book I: VI
Among love's pounding seas, for me there's no support,
And I can see no light, and yet have no desires
(O desire too bold! ) except, as my vessel tires,
That after such dangers I may still reach port.
Alas! Before I can offer my prayers ashore,
Shipwrecked, I die: for I only see one fire
Burning above me, one Helen who inspires
My vessel to seek its death on reefs so dire.
Drowning I am alone, my own self-murderer,
Choosing a child, a blind boy, as my leader,
So, I ought to shed tears, and blush for shame.
I don't know if my reason or senses guide me,
Steering my boat, but I still know it grieves me
To see so fair a harbour yet not attain.
Note: Ronsard's Helene, was Helene de Surgeres, a lady in waiting to Catherine de Medicis.
Sonnets Pour Helene Book I: IX
The other day you saw me, as you passed by,
While I was above you on the stair: you turned
Your gaze, dazzled my eyes, my soul so burned
At finding myself the focus of your eyes.
Your glance entered my heart and blood, just like
A flash of lightning through the clouds. I burned
Hot and cold, in a lasting fever, well-earned
By the mortal wound of your glance's piercing flight.
If your fair hand had not made a sign to me then,
White hand that makes you a daughter of the swan,
I'd have died, Helen, of the rays from your eyes:
But that gesture towards me saved a soul in pain:
Your eye was pleased to carry away the prize,
Yet your hand rejoiced to grant me life again.
