I've made the verse, don't know for who;
I'll send it on to someone new,
Who'll send it on towards Anjou,
Or somewhere nigh,
So its counter-key from his casket he'll
Send, by and by.
I'll send it on to someone new,
Who'll send it on towards Anjou,
Or somewhere nigh,
So its counter-key from his casket he'll
Send, by and by.
Troubador Verse
From finest sweetest place I see
No messenger, no word for me,
So my heart can't laugh or rest,
And I don't dare try my hand,
Until I know, and can attest,
That all things are as I demand.
This love of ours it seems to be
Like a twig on a hawthorn tree
That on the tree trembles there
All night, in rain and frost it grieves,
Till morning, when the rays appear
Among the branches and the leaves.
So the memory of that dawn to me
When we ended our hostility,
And a most precious gift she gave,
Her loving friendship and her ring:
Let me live long enough, I pray,
Beneath her cloak my hand to bring.
I've no fear that tongues too free
Might part me from Sweet Company,
I know with words how they can stray
In gossip, yet that's a fact of life:
No matter if others boast of love,
We have the loaf, we have the knife!
Note: Pound quotes the phrase 'Ab la dolchor' at the start of Canto XCI.
Farai un vers de dreyt nien
I've made a song devoid of sense:
It's not of me or other men
Of love or being young again,
Or other course,
Rather in sleep I found it when
Astride my horse.
I know not what hour I was born:
I'm not happy nor yet forlorn,
I'm no stranger yet not well-worn,
Powerless I,
Who was by fairies left one morn,
On some hill high.
I can't tell whether I'm awake
Or I'm asleep, unless men say.
It almost makes my poor heart break
With every sigh:
Not worth a mouse though, my heart-ache,
Saint Martial, fie!
I'm ill, I'm afraid of dying;
But of what I hear know nothing;
I'd call a doctor for his learning,
But which, say I?
He's a good doctor if I'm improving,
Not, if I die.
I've a lover, but who is she?
She, by my faith, I never could see;
Nothing she did to hurt or please,
So what, say I?
In my house, no French or Norman
Shall ever lie.
I never saw her, yet love her true,
She never was faithful or untrue;
I do well when she's not in view,
Not worth a cry,
I know a nobler, fairer too
To any eye.
I've made the verse, don't know for who;
I'll send it on to someone new,
Who'll send it on towards Anjou,
Or somewhere nigh,
So its counter-key from his casket he'll
Send, by and by.
Note: The last two lines remain perplexing, but suggest that Guillaume was inviting a similarly ironic song, a counter or duplicate, in reply.
Pus vezem de novelh florir
Since we see, fresh flowers blowing
Field and meadow greenly glowing,
Stream and fountain crystal flowing
Fair wind and breeze,
It's right each man should live bestowing
Joy as he please.
Of love I'll speak nothing but good.
Why've I not had all that I could?
Likely I've had all that I should;
For readily,
It grants joy to one who's understood
Love's boundary.
It's been the same all of my days,
I've had no joy of love, always,
Too late now to change my ways;
For knowingly
I've done much of which my heart says:
'That's nullity. '
For this reason I win less pleasure:
What I can't have I always treasure;
And yet the saying proves true forever:
For certainly:
'To good heart comes good luck in measure' -
Suffer joyfully!
You will never prove faithful to
Love, unless you're submissive too,
And to neighbours and strangers you
Act quite humbly,
And to all who live within its view
Obediently.
Obedience we must ever show,
To others, if we'd love, and so
It's fitting that from us should flow
True courtesy;
We must not speak at court as though
Born vilely.
This verse I'll say to you is worth
More if you'll comprehend it first,
And praise the words, I gave them birth
Consistently,
I too will praise, as finest on earth,
Its melody.
My Stephen, though here I keep my berth,
There presently,
I trust you'll read this, and of its worth
Give guarantee.
Mout jauzens me prenc en amar
Great the joy that I take in love,
A joy where I can take my ease,
And then in joy turn as I please,
Once more with the best I move,
For I am honoured, she's above
The best that man can hear or see.
I, as you know, small credit take,
Nor for myself claim any power,
Yet if ever a joy should flower,
This one should, and overtake
All others, Earth from shadows wake
Like the sun in a gloomy hour.
No man can fashion such a thing,
By no wish of his, no desire,
Nor by thought or dream aspire
To such joy, as she will bring,
All year I could her praises sing
And not tell all before I tire.
All joys are humbled, all must dance
To her law, and all lords obey
My lady, with her lovely way
Of greeting, her sweet pleasant glance,
A hundred years of life I'd grant
To him who has her love in play.