No More Learning

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.