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| prosody | miscellaneous |
Ara·m platz, Giraut de Borneill, Que sapcha per c'anatz blasman Trobar clus, ni per cal semblan. Aiso·m digaz, Si tan prezatz So que es a toz comunal; Car adonc tut seran egual. Seign'en Lignaura, no·m coreill Si qecs s'i trob'a son talan. Mas eu son jujaire d'aitan Qu'es mais amatz E plus prezatz Qui·l fa levet e venarsal; E vos no m'o tornetz a mal. Giraut, non voill qu'en tal trepeil Torn mos trobars; que ja ogan Lo lauzo·l bon e·l pauc e·l gran. Ja per los faz Non er lauzatz, Car non conoisson (ni lor cal) So que plus car es ni mais val. Lingnaura, si per aiso veil Ni mon sojorn torn en affan Sembla que·m dopte del mazan. A que trobatz Si non vos platz C'ades o sapchon tal e cal? Que chanz non port'altre cabtal. Giraut, sol que·l miels appareil E·l dig'ades e·l trag'enan, Mi non cal sitot non s'espan. C'anc granz viutaz Non fon denhtatz: Per so prez'om mais aur que sal, E de tot chant es atretal. Lingnaura, fort de bon conseill, Etz fis amans contrarian, E per o si n'ai mais d'affan. Mos sos levatz, C'us enraumatz Lo·m deissazec e·l diga mal, Que no·l deing ad home sesal. Giraut, per cel ni per soleil Ni per la clardat que resplan, Non sai de que·ns anam parlan, Ni don fui natz, Si soi torbatz Tan pes d'un fin joi natural. Can d'als cossir, no m·es coral. Lingnaura, si·m gira·l vermeil De l'escut cella cui reblan, Qu'eu voill dir "a Deu mi coman". Cals fols pensatz Outracuidatz! M'a mes doptanza deslial! No·m soven com me fes comtal? Giraut, greu m'es, per San Marsal, Car vos n'anatz de sai nadal. Lingnaura, que ves cort rial M'en vauc ades ric e cabal. |
Now, I'd like to know, Giraut de Bornelh, why you go criticizing Trobar Clus, and why it's important. So tell me, please, why it means so much to you that everything be common to all, for then all would be equal. Lord Lignaura, I don't object to each man composing as he desires but it is my opinion that [the song] is more to be cherished and more praiseworthy when it's light and popular – and don't misinterpret me here. I don't want my songs turning into some kind of fracas; may the good, the small and the great never again praise them. They'll never find favour with fools for they don't recognize (nor do they care), what is most precious and worthy. Lignaura, if that were to keep me awake at nights, or my pleasant days to turn to misery, it would look as though I were afraid of being in the public eye so why compose, if you don't want everyone to understand straightaway? For that is all a song is worth. Giraut, my habit is to create the best, to compose and speak it straightaway, it doesn't matter to me if it doesn't go far for nothing base was ever prized: for that reason gold is worth more than salt. The same applies to songs. Lignaura, you give such good advice but you really are a lover of argument, and that's why I'm more perplexed than ever. I'd rather any old gravelly-voiced singer Sing my noble song badly, for I don't deem it worthy of anyone of greater standing. Giraut, by heaven, and by the Sun and by the clear light that shines across the sky, I don't know what we're talking about nor do I know where I come from I'm in such a giddy state, for I think so much about that natural, noble joy that I can't think about anything else. Lignaura, the lady I serve turns the crimson side of the shield towards me, so I think, "May God help me". This foolish, rash thought! Has made me think disloyally. Surely I remember how she made me a comtal? Giraut, by Saint Martial, I'm sorry that you're leaving here at Christmas. Lignaura, I'm off to a royal court that's rich and noble. |