No More Learning

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.

Note: Ronsard plays on the identification of Helen with Helen of Troy, born of Leda, and Jupiter disguised as a swan.

Sonnets Pour Helene Book I: XIX

So often forging peace, so often fighting,

So often breaking up, and then re-forming,

So often blaming Love, so often praising,

So often searching out, so often fleeing,

So often hiding ourselves, so often revealing,

So often under the yoke, so often freeing,

Making our promises and then retracting,

Are signs that Love strikes at our very being.