No More Learning

If I have none of her let me die alway;

The glance that my lady darts at me must slay.

On my knees I shall beg of her today;

The glance that my lady darts at me must slay.

Humbly before her then I go to pray;

That she solace me, one sweet kiss I'd weigh.

The glance that my lady darts at me must slay,

Born of her sweet eyes amorous and gay.

Her body's white as snow that on glacier lay,

The glance that my lady darts at me must slay.

Fresh is her colour as a rose in May,

The glance that my lady darts at me must slay.

Her hair, red gold, pleases in every way,

Softer and sweeter than a man can say.

The glance that my lady darts at me must slay,

Born of her sweet eyes amorous and gay.

God made none so beautiful nor may,

The glance that my lady darts at me must slay.

Her body I'll love, forever and a day,

The glance that my lady darts at me must slay.

And long as I live I'll not say her nay,

And die for her if I can't have my way.

The glance that my lady darts at me must slay,

Born of her sweet eyes amorous and gay.

Note: Compare Chaucer's 'Your eyen two whole slay me suddenly, I may the beauty of them not sustain. '

Gaucelm Faidit (c. 1170 - c.
1202)

Born in Uzerche, in the Limousin, from a family of knights in the service of the Count of Turenne, he travelled widely in France, Spain, and Hungary. His known patrons include Geoffrey II, Duke of Brittany and Dalfi d'Alvernha; he was at one time in Poitiers at the court of Richard I of England, on whose death he wrote this planh. It is possible, but controversial, that he took part in the Third Crusade from 1189-1191; it seems likely that in 1202 he set out on the Fourth Crusade, as did his then patron, Boniface of Montferrat. After 1202 there is no further mention of him.

Fortz chausa es que tot lo maior dan

A harsh thing it is that brings such harm,

The worst woe, alas, I've suffered: this!

Such that in weeping I will ever mourn,

For so I must sing it now, and utter,

That he the summit and crown of valour,

Noble, brave, Richard, King of the English,

Is dead! Ah, God! What harm, what loss!

What strange words, how grievous to hear!

Firm heart a man needs, that suffers here.

Dead is the king, and a thousand years gone

Since one of such worth was, such vile loss,

Nor was ever a man like him, not one,

So brave, so free, so generous, giving,

That none half as much or more has given,

Since Alexander thrashed Darius;

Not Charlemagne, nor Arthur, as valorous

As he who made men, if truth appear,

Either rejoice in him, or shake with fear.

I marvel that in this false world not one

Generous or courteous man should exist,

None now value good words, fine action,

And why should a man aim high or low?

Now Death has shown us his mighty blow,

Who at one stroke takes the best there is,

All honour, worth, oh, all good we miss;

Now he sees there is none to shield us,

A man may dread his own dying less.

Ai! Brave lordly king, what's to be done

With our vast armies, great tournaments,

Bright courts, and fine gifts and handsome,

If you're gone, that had their captaining?

What's to be done for those suffering,

All those for your good service meant,

Who waited on you, life's ornament?