home page ?

Bel m'es quan son li fruich madur
E reverdejon li gaim,
E l'auzeill, per lo temps escur,
Baisson de lor votz lo refrim,
Tant redopton la tenebror!
E mos coratges s'enansa,
Qu'ieu chant per joi de fin' Amor
E vei ma bon' esperansa.

Fals amic, amador tafur,
Baisson Amor e levo·l crim,
E no·us cuidetz c'Amors pejur,
C'atrestant val cum fetz al prim!
Totz temps fon de fina color,
Et ancse d'una semblansa!
Nuills hom non sap de sa valor
La fin ni la comensansa.

Qui·s vol si creza fol agur,
Sol Dieus mi gart de revolim
Qu'en aital Amor m'aventur
On non a engan ni refrim!
Qu'estiu et invern e pascor
Estau en grand alegransa,
Et estaria en major
Ab un pauc de seguransa.

Ja non creirai, qui que m'o jur,
Que vins non iesca de razim,
Et hom per Amor no meillur!
C'anc un pejurar non auzim,
Qu'ieu vaill lo mais per la meillor,
Empero si·m n'ai doptansa,
Qu'ieu no·m n'aus vanar, de paor
De so don ai m'esperansa.

Greu er ja que fols desnatur,
Et a follejar non recim
E folla que no·is desmesur!
E mals albres de mal noirim,
De mala brancha mala flor
E fruitz de mala pensansa
Revert al mal outra'l pejor,
Lai on Jois non a sobransa.

Que l'Amistats d'estraing atur
Falsa del lignatge Caim
Que met los sieus a mal ahur,
Car non tem anta ni blastim,
Los trai d'amar ab sa doussor,
Met lo fol en tal erransa
Qu'el non remanria ab lor
Qui·l donavan tota Fransa.

I love when the fruits are ripe
and the second crop becomes green
and when the birds, the dark season,
lower the warbling of their voice,
so much they fear the darkness!
And my heart is exalted
because I sing out of joy of fine love
and I see my good hope.

False friends, treacherous lovers
demean Love and heighten crime,
and don't think that Love worsens,
for it is worth as much as it was in the beginning;
it was ever of a single colour
and of constant appearance!
no man knows where its power
begins nor where it ends.

Let who will believe in foolish omens:
God only prevent me from changing my mind
because I venture into such a love
as has no deception nor trouble
in Summer and Winter and at Easter time,
I'm in great joy and
I would be in greater still
with a little assurance.

I will never believe, whoever may swear it,
that wine doesn't come from grapes
and that men don't improve through love;
because we've never heard about one becoming worse,
and I am worth the more through the best,
but I have a doubt about it,
for I dare not boast, out of fear
of that whence my hope comes.

It's indeed hard for the fool to change nature
and not to start acting foolishly again
and for a foolish woman not to be reckless!
Bad trees from bad nourishment,
from bad branch, bad flower,
and the fruit of bad thought
turns back to bad, if not to worse,
where Joy is not sovereign.

For the false friendship of Cain's lineage
and its strange attachments
drags into wretchedness,
for it doesn't fear shame or blame,
with its mellifluousness, it distracts from love
and it puts the fool in such confusion
that he wouldn't stay with those
who would give him all France.

Note: if you ask me, this poem is apocryphal: it doesn't berate love, and it makes far too much sense to be one of Marcabru's, who, on top of it, has made it quite clear he doesn't like the Winter. Also, the stanzas are uncharacteristically long.

Play the original melody

Can't hear anything? Click here to download the original melody (MIDI).