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| prosody | miscellaneous |
Quan lo rius de la fontana S'esclarzis, si cum far sol, E par la flors aiglentina, E'l rossinholetz el ram Volf e refranh ez aplana Son dous chantar e l'afina, Be'ys dregz q'ieu lo mieu refranha. Amors de terra lonhdana, Per vos tot lo cors mi dol, E no'n puesc trobar mezina Si non al vostre reclam Ab maltrait d'amor doussana Dins vergier o part cortina Ab dezirada compahna. Pus tot jorns m'en falh aizina, No'm meravilh si n'ai fam, Quar anc genser crestiana Non fo, ni Dieus non o vol, Juzia ni sarrazina. Ben es selh paguatz de mana, Qui de s'amor ren guazanha. De dezir mos cors no fina Vas selha res qu'ieu pus am, E cre que'l voler m'enguana Si cobezeza la'm tol; Que pus es ponhens d'espina La dolors que per joy sana, Don ja no vuelh qu'om m'en planha. Quan pensar m'en fai aizina adonc la bays e la col, mas pueys torn en revolina perqu'em n'espert e n'aflam, quar so que floris non grana. Lo joys que mi n'ataina tot mos cujatz afaitanha. Senes breu de parguamina Tramet lo vers en cantan En plana lengua romana, A'N Ugo Bru per Filhol. Bo'm sap quar gent peitavina De Berri e de Guizana S'esjau per lieys e'n Bretanha. |
When the rill of the source turns clear, as is its habit and the dogrose blossoms and the nightingale on the bough performs and repeats and smoothens and improves its sweet song, it is time I take mine up again. Love of a distant land, for your sake all my heart aches and I can't find a remedy (unless it is your name's reverberation) to the ill of lacking sweet love, in the garden and behind the curtain, of a longed-for companion. Since I don't get a chance all day it is no wonder I crave for it because a prettier Christian never was nor--god forbids it-- a Jewish or Saracen woman. He is well paid in manna he who gains some of her love. My heart desires incessantly her whom I love the most, and I believe my will deceives me since lust takes her off from me; it is more stinging than a thorn the pain which joy heals, so I don't want anyone to pity me. When I have time to fantasize about her then I kiss and hug her; but then I twist and turn because it frustrates and fires me that the flower doesn't give fruit. The joy which torments me abates all my pride. Without a parchment scroll I send this poem, singing in plain Romance language, to Ugo Bru, through Filhol. I am happy that people from Poitiers, Berry and Guyana are gladdened by her: and the Bretons likewise. |