prosody | miscellaneous |
Als durs, crus, cozens, lauzengiers – Enojos, vilans, mals parliers – Dirai un vers que m'ai pensat; Que ja d'als no·i aura parlat, Qu'a pauc lo cor no m'esclata D'aisso qu'ieu ai vist e proat De lur malserva barata. E dirai vos de lur mestiers Si cum selh qu'en es costumiers D'auzir e de sufrir lur glat. Si·m peza, mas non er laissat Qu'ieu ab mal dir no·ls combata; E ja del plus mo·m sapchon grat Qar mos cors totz non los mata. Lauzenjador fan encombriers Als cortes et als dreituriers E a cellas qu'an cor auzat; E quecx per aquel eis mercat A l'autre cobre et aplata Son verguonhos avol barat – Aissi son de fer' escata! Per que·y falh totz bos cavaliers Que·ls cre; q'us non l'es plazientiers Mas per qu'en traga mielhs son at; Qu'il pesson, ist malaürat! Pus d'als non val una rata Des que·l fara so voluntat O·lh dira lauzenja grata. D'autres n'i a que van estiers, Que·s fa quecx cortes ufaniers; Que per outracujar mot fat, O cuj'aver mielhs guazanhat Cel qu'a plus la lengua lata En dir de partir l'amistat De cels en cui Jois s'afata. Que·ls plus pros e·ls plus gualaubiers Vei de lauzenjar prezentiers; E pes me d'ome c'a amat: Cum pot far amador irat? Mas ges (qui n'en crit ni·n glata!) Non amon tug cil qu'an baizat – So sap sidons na Lobata. Tal cug'esser cortes entiers Qu'es vilans dels quatre ladriers, Et a·l cor dins mal ensenhat; Plus que feutres sembla sendat Ni cuers de bou escarlata Non sabon mais que n'an trobat – E quecx quo·s pot calafata. Pos non aus mos durs deziriers Dir, tan tem que·l dans fos dobliers, Maldirai los en luec d'aurat; E Dieus – quar fara caritat – Los maldiga e·ls abata Sai, e pueys lai en Neiron prat On recebran deliurata. Palharet, non ges gran palhiers, D'aquest vers ompli tos paniers E porta tot ton col cargat A'n Girart, de cuy ai peccat, A Perpinhan part Laucata. E di·l (per que m'aia comprat) Qu'el cassa·s e'n desbarata. Ben chant (qui que s'en debata) Dels lauzengiers qu'an Joi baissat Del suc entro la sabata. Joglar, s'eu ja cautz sabata, Qi no·us ve pauc a cavalgat, Ni sap per qe se debata. |
To the hard, cruel, scalding slanderers – annoying, vile, ill-speaking – I will sing a song I have devised; for it shan't treat any other subject, for my heart is about to burst because of what I have seen and experienced of their evil trickery. And I shall tell you about their doings as one who is used to them, to hearing and enduring their harsh talk. It grieves me, but I shan't renounce fighting them with ill talk; and let them not be grateful to me because I do not kill them all. Slanderers hamper the progress of the noble and righteous men and of those ladies whose heart is daring; and each, through this very trickery, covers and hides from the others his own shameful, wicked treachery – such a heinous breed they are! He makes a mistake, every good knight who believes them; for none of them is courteous but for his own advantage; for they think "What a fool!" and don't consider him worth anything as soon as he does what they want or tells of some interesting scandal. There are others who do otherwise: each thinks of himself as noble and proud, for, through most stupid presumption, they think he has best deserved who has the broadest tongue in saying what breaks the friendship of those in whom Joy is born. For I see the most daring and most munificent disposed to slander; and I think, of a man who has loved: "how can he make lovers sad?" However (no matter who cries and wrangles on the subject), not all love who have made love, as my Lady Lobata knows well. One thinks he is a whole gentleman who is four-quarters base-born and has a churlish heart within; less than felt resembles taffeta or ox-leather scarlet wool do they know anything, unless they have invented it, and each caulks as well as he can. Since I do not dare express my harsh desire, so much I fear to double the damage, I shall curse them as a distraught man; and may god (it would be a charitable act) curse them and cast them down, here and there, in the Elysian Fields where they shall receive their due. Palharet, not a big straw stack, fill your baskets with this verse and bring all your laden neck to Sir Girart, who has wronged me, in Perpignan, around Leuchate. And tell him (so that we may be even) that he is driving himself away and making a bad bargain. I sing well (whoever may deny it) of the slanderers who have brought Joy down from the crown of the head to the shoe. Joglar – so may I never wear shoes! – he who doesn't see you has ridden little and doesn't know why they dispute. |