No More Learning

'

I am not one to disdain

The good that God may do,

For in that week, the very same

That I came away, it's true,

She said clearly, saying my name,

That my songs please her too.

Would all Christians plain

Could have such joy anew,

As I felt, and feel all through,

For all else but this is vain.

I'll believe her again

If she assures me it's true;

But if it's not, I'll disdain

To trust her, and you, and you.

Can la verz folha s'espan

When the greenery unfolds

And the branch is white with flower,

With sweet birdsong in that hour

My heart gently onward goes.

When I see the blossoming trees

And hear the nightingale in song,

Then how can a man go wrong,

Who chooses loving and is pleased.

For I have one I've chosen

Who gives me strength and joy.

And if all the world now holds -

All those under heaven's power,

Were gathered in some sweet bower,

I'd only wish for one I know.

Only she my heart can please,

Who makes me sigh all day long,

So at night my sleep is gone,

Not that I desire to sleep.

She, the slender dainty one,

True heart, does true speech employ.

If I were brought to her stronghold,

Prisoned by her in some tower,

And daily ate my morsel sour,

Happily I'd there grow old,

If my desire she granted me!

She should try to do no wrong:

If she made me yearn too long,

Neither life nor death I'd see:

Life for me as good as done,

While there with death I'd sadly toy.

Pel doutz chan que? l rossinhols fai

To the sweet song of the nightingale,

At night when I am half-asleep,

I wake possessed by joy complete,

Contemplating love and thinking;

For this is my greatest need, to be

Forever filled with joy and sweetly,

And in joy begin my singing.

Who seeks to know the joy I feel,

If such joy were heard and seen,

All other joy but slight would seem

Compared with mine: vast in its being.

Others preen and chatter wildly,

Claim to be blessed, rich and nobly,

With 'true love': I've twice the thing!
When I admire her body hale

Well-formed, in all respects I mean,

Her courtesy and her sweet speech,

For all my praise I yet gain nothing;

Though I took a year completely

I could not paint her truthfully

So courtly is she, of sweet forming.

You who think that I can't fail,

Not realising her spirit keen

Is open and is friendly, even

Yet her body is far from being,

Know, the best messenger I see

From her is my own reverie,

That recalls her fairest seeming.

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

In your service my self I'll keep,

Sworn, and pledged to you complete,

As I have been always in everything.

And as you are first of joys to me,

So the last joy too you will be,

As long as I'm still living.

I know not when I'll see you again;

But I am grieved and sad to leave.

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

I beg of you) the court and king,

Now I will serve you there entirely,

Among the knights, among the ladies,

All sweet, true, and humble beings.

Huguet, my messenger, go, kindly

Sing my song and sing it freely,

To the Norman Queen go warbling.

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

La rossinhols s'esbaudeya

The nightingale sings happily

Hard by the blossom on the bough,

And I am taken by such envy

I can't help but sing any how;

Knowing not what or whom either,

For I love not I, nor another.

Such effort I make that this will prove

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

They gain more from love who pay

Court by deceiving, in their pride,

Than he who humbly makes his way,

And ever the suppliant does abide,

For Amor has no love for the man

Who is honest and noble as I am.

My loss is all the more complete,

That I am not false nor use deceit.

But as the bough bends beneath

The tempest that makes it sway,

I did to her my whole will bequeath,

She who assails me every way.

So she maddens and destroys me,

Sunk to low-born acts, completely,

Yet I'll give her my eyes to blind,

If any wrong she in me can find.

She often accuses me and tries me,

And lays false charges now, at will,

Yet whenever she acts vilely

All the fault's laid at my door still!

She quietly makes sport of me,

With her own faults damning me!