No More Learning

For my song, the barons wish me ill, truly,

Yet know I'll value them as they value me.

Bel Restaur, if I only have your mercy,

I scorn men for whom I prove ill company.

Notes: Blacatz, Blacas de Blacas III (1165-1237), was feudal lord of Aups and a troubadour.

The Roman Emperor is Frederick II of Sicily. The King of France is Louis IX. The King of Castile is Ferdinand III of Castile and Leon. The King of England is Henry III. The King of Aragon is James I, cousin of Count Raymond Berenger IV. The King of Navarre is Thibaut IV of Champagne, the poet king. The Count of Toulouse is Raymond VII. The Count of Provence is Raymond Berenger.

Amilau, or Millau in Aveyron, on the banks of the Tarn, was the major source of earthenware in the Roman Empire, and site of one of the major bridges over the Tarn. Subject to the King of Aragon from 1172, it was taken by Raymond VI of Toulouse in 1222, and James I of Aragon finally ceded his rights to the town in 1258 to France. Marseille which established itself as a republic during the period was at the centre of conflict for decades. In 1246 it finally passed to Charles of Anjou, Count of Provence.
Bel Restaur, 'the lovely one who restores me', or the Fair Healer, may be Guida da Rodez, 1212-1265, daughter of Henri I Count of Rodez. She married Pons VI of Montlaur in 1226. She was then Baronne de Posquieres, de Castries et de Montlaur, and became a patroness of troubadours.

Ai las e que-m fan mei uehls

Alas, what use are my eyes

If they see not what I prize?

Though summer renew and adorn

Itself with leaf and flower

Yet however I sing and mourn,

She, the lady of pleasure,

Cares not for my prayers forlorn,

I'll sing, I'll die a lover,

So loving her, dusk to dawn,

For little do I see her.

Alas, what use are my eyes

If they see not what I prize?

Although love cause me to sigh,

I'll not complain of a thing;

For the noblest, I choose to die,

Though evil for good may sting,

So long as she consents that I

Hope, mercy she yet may bring,

Whatever suffering I may buy,

I'll not claim for anything.

Alas, what use are my eyes

If they see not what I prize?

I die if her love she'll not give,

For I cannot see or dream

Where I can turn or how I'll live,

If she so distant seem,

No other could please I believe,

Nor make me forget, I deem;

Whatever the love I conceive

The more Love shall I esteem.

Alas, what use are my eyes

If they see not what I prize?

Ah, why does she treat me harshly?

She knows how it comforts me,

To sing, and praise one so worthy,

I'm hers, the more painfully

She exalts or abases me,

I can't prevent it, truly,

Far from her I'd not wish to be,

Though living death is my fee.

Alas, what use are my eyes

If they see not what I prize?

So I'll beg my sweet friend in song,

Please don't kill me, sinfully.

If she knows it to be a wrong

When I'm dead she'll grieve for me,

Yet I'd rather she brought death on,

Than live as her pleasure decree,

Worse than death not to see the one

Whom I love so tenderly.

Alas, what use are my eyes

If they see not what I prize?