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Puois nostre temps comens'a brunezir,
E li verjan son de lor fuelhas blos,
E del solelh vei tant bayssatz los rays,
Per que·l jorn son escur e tenebros
Et hom non au d'auzelhs ni chans ni lays,
Per joy d'Amor nos devem esbaudir.

Aquest Amor no pot hom tan servir
Que mil aitans no·n doble·l gazardos:
Que Pretz e Joys e tot quant es, e mays,
N'auran aisselh qu'en seran poderos;
Qu'anc non passet covinens ni·ls enfrays;
Mas per semblan greus er a conquerir.

Per lieys deu hom esperar e sofrir,
Tant es sos pretz valens e cabalos,
Qu'anc non ac suenh dels amadors savays,
De ric escars ni de paubr' ergulhos;
Qu'en plus de mil no·n a dos tan verays
Que fin'Amors los deja obezir.

Ist trobador, entre ver e mentir,
Afollon drutz e molhers et espos,
E van dizen qu'Amors vay en biays,
Per que'l marit endevenon gilos,
E dompnas son intradas en pantays,
Cui mout vol hom escoutar et auzir.

Cist sirven fals fan a plusors gequir
Pretz e Joven e lonhar ad estros,
Don Proeza no·n cug que sia mais,
Qu'Escarsetaz ten las claus dels baros,
Manhs n'a serratz dins las ciutat d'Abais,
Don Malvestatz no·n laissa un issir.

Ves manhtas partz vei lo segle faillir,
Per qu'ieu n'estauc marritz e cossiros,
Que soudadiers non truep ab cui s'apays,
Per lauzengiers qu'an bec malahuros,
Qui son pejor que Judas, qui Dieu trays;
Ardre·ls degr'om o totz vius sebellir.

Nos no·ls podem castiar ni cobrir;
Tollam nos d'elhs e dieus acosselh nos!
Qu'us joys d'Amor me reverdis e·m pays,
E puesc jurar qu'anc ta bella no fos:
Petit la vey, mas per ella suy gays
Et jauzions, e Dieus m'en do jauzir.

Ara·s pot hom lavar et esclarzir
De gran blasme, silh qu'en son encombros;
E si es pros yssira ves Roays,
E gurpira lo segle perilhos,
Et ab aitan pot si liurar del fays
Qu'assatz en fai trabucar e perir.

Cercamon dis: «Qi vas Amors s'irais
Meravill'es com pot l'ira suffrir.»
Q'ira d'amor es paors et esglais
E no·n pot hom trop viure ni murir.

Fagz es lo vers, e non deu veillezir,
Segon aisso qe monstra la razos,
Q'anc bon'Amors non galiet ni trais,
Anz dona joi als arditz amoros.

Now that our season starts dimming
and the branches are despoiled of their leaves
and I see the rays of the sun so slanted
that the days are dark and gloomy
and one doesn't hear the songs and lais of birds,
we have to rejoice out of the joy of Love.

One cannot serve this love so long
that the reward may not be thousandfold [the trouble]:
for Worth and Joy and all there is, and more,
shall be of those who will have it in their power;
for it never trespassed nor broke an agreement,
but it is apparently hard to win.

One must hope and wait for her,
so much her worth is high and noble,
for she never cared for uncouth lovers,
for the thrifty rich nor for the haughty poor;
for out of more than a thousand [suitors?], there aren't two so true
that a noble Love must concede.

These troubadours, between truth and lies
corrupt lovers, women and husbands,
and keep saying that Love proceeds obliquely
because the husbands become jealous
and the ladies are in throes;
still people want to hear them, and listen to them much.

These false suitors make it so that many abandon
Worth and keep Youth far away,
so that it seems to me that Prowess is no more,
for Pettiness holds the key of the barons,
having locked many of them in the city of Debasement,
from which Malice doesn't let a single one come out.

I see the world fail on many sides,
for which reason I remain astonished and worried,
that the mercenary doesn't find anyone to feed him
because of the slanderers with their accursed tongue,
who are worse than Judas, who betrayed god;
one should burn them, or bury them all alive.

We can't either punish or hide them;
let's shun them, and may god guide us!
For a joy of Love rejuvenates and nourishes me,
and I can swear her equal in beauty has never existed:
I see her but little, but, because of her, I am happy
and joyous, and god gives me joy through her.

Now one can wash away and purify himself
from the great blame, at least those who are accused of it;
and if he is brave, he will take to Edessa,
and abandon the perils of the world:
by doing so he can free himself of the burden
that make so many trip and perish.

Cercamon says: "If one gets angry at Love,
it is a wonder that he can endure such sadness."
For love-sadness is fear and worry
and in it one cannot really either live or die.

The verse is done, and it must not get old,
according to reason,
for a fine Love doesn't deceive nor betray,
rather, it gives joy to the daring lover.