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Raimbaut d'Orange (c1144-d. 1173)

Raimbaut, Lord of Orange, Corethezon and other lands in Provence and Languedoc, was the first troubadour originating from Provence proper. As a minor, he was a ward of the lords of Baux and Marseilles. He died in 1173, possibly a victim of the widespread epidemic of that year.

Ar resplan la flors enversa

Now the flowers gleam, in reverse,

Among the jagged peaks and hills.

What flowers? Of snow, frost, and ice,

That jagged cut, and wound, and sting;

And dead the calls, cries, trills and whistles,

Among the twigs, and leafless bristles.

Yet joy is green: with joyous face,

I see the low shrivelled, and the base.

For in such a way do I reverse

All this, that fine plains look like hills,

I take for flowers the frost and ice,

In the cold I'm warm as anything,

And thunderclaps are songs and whistles,

And full of leaf the leafless bristles.

With joy I'm firmly bound in place,

Seeing nothing that's low or base,

Except a people, born our reverse,

As though nourished on the hills,

Who serve me worse than frost and ice,

For each one with his tongue can sting,

And murmurs evilly and whistles.

Sticks are no good or sharpened bristles,

Or threats; it's a joy to them, that race,

When they can do what men call base.

From kissing you, though I meet reverse,

No plains prevent me nor do hills,

Lady, nor do the frost and ice,

But powerlessness, ah, that's the thing.

Lady, for whom I sing and whistle,

Your lovely gaze, like sharpened bristle,

So chastens me with joy, no trace

Dare I own of low desire or base.

I have forged onwards in reverse,

Searching peaks, ravines and hills,

Like one tortured by frost and ice,

Whom the cold torments and stings,

So that no more would song or whistle

Rule me than lawless monks the bristle.

But now, Praise God, joy holds, a space,

Despite the slanderers, false and base.
May my verse, which I so reverse

That it's unhindered by woods or hills,

Go, where one feels not frost or ice,

Nor does the cold have power to sting.

To my mistress may he sing and whistle,

Clear, so her heart feels the sharp bristle,

Who can sing nobly, with joy and grace,

For it suits no singer vile and base.

Sweet lady, may love, joy, and grace

Unite us two, despite the base.

Jongleur, less joy is in this place,

For, unseen, I fear lest you are base.

Non chant per auzel ni per flor

I do not sing for bird or flower,

Nor for snow, now, nor for ice,

Nor for warmth or the cold's power,

Nor for the fields' fresh paradise;

Nor for any pleasure do I sing

Nor indeed have I been a singer,

But for my mistress, all my longing,

For on earth none lovelier may linger.

Now have I parted from one worse

Than any ever seen or found,

To love the fairest one on earth,

The lady of most worth, I'm bound.

And this I'll do my whole life long,

For I'm in love with no other;

And I believe her liking's strong

For me, so it seems to me her lover.

Lady, I shall have much honour

If ever the privilege is granted

Of clasping you beneath the cover,

Holding you naked as I've wanted;

For you are worth the hundred best,

And I'm not exaggerating either.

In that alone is my joy expressed,

More than if I were the emperor!

I'll make my mistress my lord and lady,

Whatever may be the outcome now,

For I drank that secret love, fatally,

And must love you evermore, I vow.

Tristan, when Iseult the Fair, his lover,

Granted his love, he could do no less,

And by such covenant I so love her,

I cannot escape it: she's my mistress.

I'd earn more worth than any other,

If such a nightgown were given me

As Iseult handed to her lover,

For it was never worn, certainly.

Tristan, you prized that noble gift:

And I am seeking for such another.

If she I long for grants me her shift,

I'll cease to envy you, fair brother!

See, lady, how God gives his aid

To she who of love is not afraid:

For Iseult stood there in great dread,

Then in a moment her heart said:

Convince your husband to believe

That no man born of woman may,

Claim he has touched you: I grieve

You can say the same of me today!

Carestia, don't you dare to leave

That place without bringing away

Part of the joy that she can weave

Who grants me more joy than I can say.