Now when we see the meadows-once again
in flower and the orchards turning green,
streams and-fountains running clear,
the breezes and the winds,
it is right that each man celebrate the joy
that makes him rejoice.
Now I must not say anything but good of Love.
Why do I get not one bit of it?
Maybe I wasn't meant for more.
And yet how freely it gives great joy to any man who upholds
its rules.
This is the way it has always been with me:
I never had the Joy of what I loved,
and I never will, as I never did.
For I am aware,
I do many things and my heart says,
"It is all nothing."
And so I know less than anyone what pleasure is,
because I want what I cannot have.
And yet, one wise saying tells me
the certain truth:
When the heart is good, its-power is good,
if a man knows patience."
Surely no one can ever be Love's
perfect man unless he gives it homage in humility
and is obliging to strangers
and acquaintances,
and to all the people of that realm obedient.
A man who wants to be a lover
must meet many people with obedience,
and must know how to do the things that fit in court,
and must keep, in court, from speaking
like a vulgar man.
Concerning this vers I tell you a man is all the more
noble
as he understands it, and he gets more praise,
and all the strophes are built exactly
on the same meter,
and the melody, which I myself am happy about,
is fine and good.
Let my vers, since I myself do not,
appear before her,
Mon Esteve, and let it be the witness
for my praise.
At night these harbingers are in splendor
and in the daylight dark to everyone:
the sweet and pleasant and rejoicing looks,
the great beauty and the virtues I have beheld in her;
it is no wonder I am astonished by these things,
God has lit up the world with her;
for take the most beautiful day of summer--
beside her it would be dark at high noon.
In love there is fear and bravery,
these two are three and from the third come the two,
and true worth belongs to their essence
where every virtue finds shelter and retreat.
For love is the refuge of all,
and not one is absent that belongs there.
But I have been absent in your residence,
my lady whose worth is so great, and do not know
where I am.
Nothing is stronger than she when she commands me,
for I have relinquished every blessing for that one:
my greatest joy awaits me, or my death,
I do not know which, and have not known since I stood
before her.
Then her eyes gave me no distress,
no--they turned to strike so gently
a longing for love into my heart;
the wound I received there is still fresh.
The wound was great and can only get worse,
nor can any doctor cure me
except her who shot the arrow.
If she deigns to touch it with her hand,
she would take away that mortal wound--
at least the shaft, which I greatly want.
But she cannot draw out the iron point,
for that broke off inside my heart when the arrow struck.
Lady, I have no other messenger to you
with whom I dare send you my heart
except my song, if you consent to sing it.
I draw strength from one thing, I never did wrong,
my friend, toward you, by any act,
no, I love you more than Seguin loved Valensa,1
and I am most pleased that I could conquer you in love,
my friend, for you are worth more than everyone.
You display such arrogance to me in your words and your bearing,
and yet you are open with everyone else.
It makes me wonder how you are cold with pride,
my friend, to me, I have reason to lament;
it is not right that another love take you away from me,
no matter what things she says to you, or how she makes
you welcome.
And remember what was the beginning
of our love. May the Lord God never want
that in my fault lies the parting.
The great manliness at home in you
and your ringing merit, they disquiet me,
for I do not know one woman, far or near,
who, desiring to love, does not lean toward you.
But, friend, you have judgment,
you can tell who is more true:
remember our sharing.2
My name and high descent should help me,
and my beauty, and the purity of my heart most of all;
therefore I send this song to you down there,
to your dwelling, let it be my messenger,
and I wish to know, my fair gentle friend,
why are you so barbarous and cruel to me,
is it pride, or wishing ill?
And also I want you to tell him, messenger,
many people suffer for having too much pride.
1Lovers in a lost romance.
2This may refer to poems the Countess exchanged with her lover.
Handsome friend, with high longing
I loved you, since you delighted me,
and I know I committed a folly,
for you have recoiled from me the more for that,
since with you I never used subterfuge--
and so you render me evil for good!
Indeed I love you the more--I do not recant that--
but love has seized me so fiercely
that I believe I can never have
wellÄbeing without your loving.
I shall have set a wretched precedent
for other women who love,
since it is usual that men send a message
and words that are sifted and chosen well.
As for me, I consiter myself healed,
my friend, by my own devotion,
when I implore you--for this is right for me,
since even a worthier woman is enriched
if from you she wins some satisfaction
of kissing or close company.
Let me be cursed if ever I had a fickle
heart towards you, or behaved flightily!
No lover, however exalted,
was ever coveted by me.
No, I am pensive and filled with pain
as you do not recall my love--
if no joy comes to me from you,
you will soon find my life is finished:
for, with a minor malady,
a lady dies, if no one frees her from it.
All the affliction and harm
that have been my lot because of you,
my birth makes me thank you for these--
and my husband above all.
And if you have ever failed me,
I forgive you, in good faith,
and I beg you to come back to me
after you shall have heard
my song--for, I give you my pledge,
you will find a fair welcome here!
Then beauty in a virtuous woman's face
Pleases the eyes, striking the heart so deep
A yearning for the pleasing thing may rise,
Sometimes so long it lingers in that place
Love's spirit is awakened from his sleep.
By a worthy man and woman's moved likewise.