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Ieu no suy pars   als autres trobadors,
ans suy trop durs   a selh que·m ten per fraire;
e mos trobars   es blasmes e lauzors:
enueitz plazers   fas als savis retraire
et als nescis dir quo suy quetz;
per que mos vers deu mais valer,
qu'entre mil non cug n'aya detz
que del tot puescon retener
so que mos sens ampara.

Mos sens es clars   als bos entendedors,
trop es escurs   a selh que no sap gaire;
per que cujars,   lai on no val valors,
non es sabers   ni sens, a mo vejaire,
qu'ieu vey e sey selhs qu'entendetz.
Quecx cujatz bon'amig'aver,
sol so qu'en veyretz ne crezetz
que cujars fa·l savi cazer
si sens non lo declara.

Jamais no·m gars,   si aras no·m secors
sens ni agurs,   del crim don aug lo braire.
Aigua, ni mars,   ni fuecs, non es paors,
ni reteners   laironessis al laire,
contra·ls engans fenhs e cubertz
de las falsas, fenchas, ses ver,
qu'ades porto·ls lasses ubertz
ab que·ns prendon mati e ser,
e·l jorn, q'us no s'en gara.

Larcx et avars,   los pus autz e·ls menors
vey mal segurs   d'amor, don son amaire,
quar sos mesclars   es de motas colors;
cubertz tenhers,   don ja us non repaire
fa als pus parliers et als quetz,
tro n'a avut a son lezer
so que no vuelh e que voletz.
Del belh semblan que·n fe parer
non es pueys trop avara?

Pauc val amars   cuy escompren amors,
ni sos aturs,   ni l'honor de son paire;
desheretars   es conortz e sabors,
tro·l falh l'avers   que s'en cuja estraire.
Ben gieta en mar e·ls dezertz
sa semensa — don frug no 'sper —
lo pus cortes e·l mielhs apertz,
quan lo torna e noncaler
fals' amistatz amara.

Vils es e cars   e muda trops senhors
lo cons tafurs,   deslials enganaire.
Anc lunhs azars   ab datz galiadors
ni lunhs poders   no saup tan d'aver traire,
quo fa aquelh per cuy falh pretz,
qui cre lieys que l'a en poder.
Amors, per que vos no vezetz
l'engan qu'elhas nos fan vezer
quan s'an pencha lur cara?

No·m dezampars   joys de totz los melhors,
que·l pus autz murs   pert son pretz ab un caire.
Quar dompneyars   falh als fis amadors,
pauc val temers,   que mais n'a us trichaire.
Donas, per semblan, tort n'avetz:
lonc temps a degra remaner
la foldatz que vos mantenetz,
que·ls pus ricx faitz per folhs tener,
quar joys los dezampara.

Jois et amors, per que fugetz
aselh en cuy deuratz caber?
May amatz aver, so dizetz,
que Espanhols no fa comer,
ni Abraam no fe Sara.

Drutz e maritz ben conoyssetz
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
sie·us ditz so que vos no sabetz
ja no li·n devetz pietz voler:
tart o sabretz sempr'ara!

I am not like the other troubadours:
rather, I'm too hard on those who consider me their brother.
There is blame and praise about my art:
I make the wise regard nuisances as pleasantries
and [I make] the uncouth say I don't make sense;
for this my poetry should be valued more,
because I don't think there are ten out of a thousand
who can completely comprehend
what my wit covers.

My sense is clear to the connoisseurs,
it is too cryptic for those who don't know a thing;
because imagination, there where valour is not prized,
is neither knowledge nor wit, as I regard it,
for I see and know those you understand.
You each believe you have a good girlfriend:
believe only what you see about her,
for imagining makes the wise fall,
if sense doesn't enlighten him.

I'll never avoid, unless sense and luck
succour me, the fault about which I hear such ruckus.
Flood nor sea nor fire are worries
nor is keeping thieves from robberies
compared to the subtle, hidden deceptions
of false, treacherous, truthless [women]
who always carry ready snares
with which they catch us, in the morning and at night,
and [even] during the day, if one isn't careful.

The lavish and the stingy, the noble and the humble
[are, as] I see, insecure in front of Love, which makes them lovers,
for his blend is of many colours;
obscure make-ups, impossible to resist [?]
he shows to the talkative and to the quiet
until he's had enough
of what I don't want, but you want.
And of the beautiful countenance that it made appear,
isn't he, afterwards, too tight?

To one inflamed by love, the heartbreaks mean little,
and so do his efforts and the honour of his father;
dilapidating is consolation and taste,
until the riches he thinks he can tap into fail him.
He rather throws his seed into seas
and deserts—let him not hope it bears fruit—
the most courteous and generous,
when a false, bitter relationship
puts him in the friend zone.

It is vile, and expensive, and changes too many masters
the miserable, disloyal, deceitful cunt.
Neither from far-fetched games with loaded dice
nor from others' ownership did he know how to withdraw his money well enough
—just as does the one who falls from virtue—
he who believes her who has him in her power.
Love, why don't
you see
the deception they make us see
when they paint their face?

May the enjoyment of all the best not fail me,
for the highest wall loses its virtues because of a stone.
Since courting fails the pure lovers,
trepidation is worth little, since the players fare better.
Ladies, you seem to be in the wrong:
you should have stopped long ago
the foolishness you keep,
for you have the best-endowed look like dunces
because joy deserts them.

Joy and love, why do you flee
the one with whom you should dwell?
You love money more, admit it,
than a Spaniard loves eating
or Abraham loved Sara.

You know lovers and husbands well
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
if he tells you things you don't know,
you shouldn't hold it against him:
you'd hardly understand them now!