No More Learning

For love's joy were my estate

Were it not for the tellers of tales.

A fool treats his mistress cruelly,

I'll pardon her if she'll pardon me,

Liars they are, whom naught avails,

If they made me speak badly of her.

Corona, carry these verses for me

To Narbonne, there, to my lady;

Of perfection her life never fails,

And no man can speak badly of her.

Chantars no pot gaire valer

Singing proves merely valueless

If the song moves not from the heart,

Nor from the heart can song progress,

If it lacks noble love, heart's dream.

So of all songs mine reign supreme,

For with love's joy I seek to bind

Mouth, and eyes, and heart, and mind.

May God never grant me power

Not inspired by true love's art!

If I never knew how to gain its flower,

Without every day enduring pain,

I'd be of good heart still, that's plain,

And my joy is therefore more alive,

Since I'm of good heart, and for it I strive.

Through ignorance, the fools decry

Love, but that does it little hurt,

For Love will in no way fail, say I,

If it's a love that's not commonplace.

And that's not love, nor of its race,

But only has its form and name,

That loves nothing except for gain.

If I am to speak only what's true,

I know from where such errors start:

From those women who love men too

Only through greed: they are for hire.

Would I were false in this, a liar!

I speak of it, do I not, so harshly,

And yet that I lie not saddens me.

In its agreement and its assent

Two noble lovers love's apart,

For nothing can come of their intent,

If their desire is not mutual.

And he is in truth a natural

Who reprehends her for her longing,

Or praises to her what is not fitting.

My good hope is rightly placed,

When she from whom I'd least wish to part,

Shows me her beauteous face,

Pure, gentle, noble and true,

A king's salvation she'd prove too,

Lovely, graceful, of pleasing body;

I, with nothing, she renders wealthy.
I love and fear naught more than her,

I would receive the bitterest dart,

If only it gave my lady pleasure;

For it seems like Christmas Day

If her sweet spiritual eyes should stray

Towards me: yet so infrequently,

That each day's like a hundred to me!

Fine, natural verse, and good, I say,

To him who can clearly understand it,

If he hopes for joy, the better the fit.

Bernard de Ventadour understands it,

Speaks it; makes it, and wishes joy of it.

Peire d'Auvergne (fl. 1157-1170)

A townsman's son from the Bishopric of Clermont-Ferrand, Peire d'Alvernhe was a professional troubadour. He was at the court of Sancho III of Castile in 1157-58, and appears at Piuvert in the Aude in 1170.

Ab fina joia comenssa

With noble joy commences

This verse that rhymes sweet words,

Where nothing harms the senses;

Yet I'd rather none might learn them

If my song does not concern them:

For may no wretched singer there,

Who'd render any song absurd,

Turn my sweet tune to braying.

Of Love I have remembrance

And its sweet speech: no more;

But by patient attendance

I hope joy will come my way.

Life demands as much, I say,

Since often, with a little care,

Things are better than before,

And we eat well without paying.

I've fine semblance of her favour

For with grace she welcomes me,

But otherwise not a savour,

Nor indeed should I aim so high,

Nor such rich joy accrue that I

Then feel like an emperor.

It's enough that she speaks to me,

And listens to what I'm saying.

In me she inspires such reticence,

For of herself so little she gives;

Joy which displays such diffidence,

Hardly puts a man at his ease.

Yet let her retain me, as she please,

For my suffering is not so rare.

I'll not reproach her, as she lives,

My love there's no dismaying.

I've done penance without sinning,

And it's wrong if I'm not forgiven;

For I set my heart, from the beginning,

On her mercy, though she grant it not.

I think ill will take me, for hope forgot

May lead a poor lover to despair.