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| prosody | miscellaneous |
Entre gel e vent e fanc E giscl'e gibr'e tempesta E·l braus pensars que·m turmenta De ma bella dompna genta M'an si mon cor vout en pantais C'ar vauc dretz e sempre biäis; Cen ves sui lo jorn trist e gais. E ges tres deniers no·m planc L'ivern, anz m'o tenc a festa – ves c'ai voluntat dolenta –. Car de mi donz la plus genta, Pos saup qu'en trop-amar nos trais Cel'amors que·m sol tener frais, O·l plaira que m'ai'o que·m lais. Dompn'ab cor cortes e franc, Ar m'es pujat en la testa Que sapcha que·us n'atalenta. Ai! Douza res car'e genta! Per Dieu, no·s fraingna nostre jais! Sol remembre vos del douz bais! Ar o laissarai, s'ie·n dic mais. Que sempre·m tornon l'oil blanc, E·l cors, qu'est esglai mi presta, Fail tro c'om la cara·m venta Can mi soven, dompna genta, Com era nostre jois verais Tro lauzengiers crois e savais Nos loigneron ab lor fals brais. Lauzengier, ren non vos tanc! Qu'eu non sui d'aquella gesta, S'anc fui. Ves, Amors gauzenta? E no i taing mais, Amors genta; Que s'amava cel que retrais So don me nais aquest esglais No·il faria enog ni fais. Que – si·m sal Dieus! – non aic anc, Que mos cors m'o amonesta, Sor, cozina, ni parenta S'amar volc de guiza genta C'anc de mi s'i gardes ni·s tais; Qu'ie·n valria·ls Turcs part Roäis D'amar, se lor n'era en ais. E, dompna, car tant m'estanc? Qu'eu no·us veg, per als non resta Mais tem – c'aisso·m n'espaventa – C'a vos fos dans, dompna genta. Mas mandatz mi per plans essais, Per tal cobrir sol sapcha·l cais! Qu'eu irai lai de grant eslais. Qu'ie·n pert la color e·l sanc Tal talent ai que·m desvesta C'ab vos fos ses vestimenta Aissi com etz la plus genta; Que tan grans voluntatz m'en nais Qu'en un jorn – tan ben c'om no·m pais – En pert so que d'un mes engrais. Dompna, renovell nostre jais Si·us platz; que viu, si be·m fas gais, Ab manz durs doloiros pantais. Joglar, vos avetz pro oimais, Et eu planc e sospir et ais. |
The frost and wind and mud and squalls and cold and storm and the gloomy thought, which torments me, of my noble, beautiful lady have so muddled my heart that I walk straight and suddenly sidle; I am sad and merry a hundred times a day. And I do not complain at all about the winter, I rather consider it a feast – See what a painful longing I have – For, concerning my most noble lady: since she knows that that love which used to keep me young drives us towards excessive love, she'll either agree to have me or let me go. Lady of kind and earnest heart, now the idea has mounted to my head that I should know what your intentions are. Oh! Sweet, dear, kind thing, for god's sake, let not our joy be broken! Just recall the sweet kiss! Now shall I give it up, if I describe it more. My eyes turn suddenly up and my heart, harbinger of this terror, fails me so that people fan my face when I remember, kind lady, what our true joy was like until the cruel, ruthless slanderers parted us with their false rumours. Slanderers, I am not in the least your relative! For I am not of that breed, nor ever I was! Do you see, joyful love? No more [evidence?] is required, kind Love; were he in love, the one who purported that which is the cause of this fright of mine, I wouldn't cause him obstacle nor trouble. For – so help me god! – I can't recall – my heart admonishes me – a sister, cousin or relative who, if she wished to love in a proper way, would refrain from it and hush because of me; for I would be as good as the Turks around Edessa in matters of love, if I were a burden to them in it. And, lady, why do I stray away so much? That I don't see you rests on no other ground but fear – for this frightens me – that it would harm you, kind lady. But ask me for a clear assay, under a secret such that the mouth only would know it! I shall go for it with great elan. For I lose my colour and blood, such a desire I have to undress for to be with you naked – the guise in which you look best. Such great a craving for it springs in me that in a day – however well they feed me – I lose the fat I put on in a month. Lady, renew our joy, an you please; for I live, although I pretend to be quite merry, in many a hard, painful quagmire. Joglar, you have good thing from now on, while I weep, sigh and ail. |