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Je ne veux plus que chanter [ma]1 tristesse: Car autrement chanter je ne pourrois, Veu que je suis absent de ma maistresse ; Si je chantois autrement je mourrois. Pour ne mourir il faut donc que je chante En chants piteux ma plaintive langueur, Pour le départ de ma maistresse absente, Qui de mon sein [m’a desrobé]2 le coeur. Desja l’esté et Ceres la blétiere, Ayant le front orné de son present, Ont ramené la moisson nourriciere Depuis le temps que mort je suis absent, De ses beaux yeux, dont la lumiere belle Seule pourroit guerison me donner, Et, si j’estois là bas en la nacelle, Me pourroit faire au monde retourner. Mais ma raison est si bien corrompue Par une fausse et vaine illusion, Que nuict et jour je la porte en la veue, Et sans la voir j’en ay la vision. Comme celuy qui contemple les nues, Pense aviser mille formes là-sus, D’hommes, d’oiseaux, de Chimeres cornues, Et ne voit rien, car ses yeux sont deceus. Et comme cil qui, d’une haleine forte, En haute mer, à puissance de bras Tire la rame, il l’imagine torte, Rompue en l’eau, toutesfois ne l’est pas, Ainsi je voy d’une veue trompée Celle qui m’a tout le sens depravé, Qui, par les yeux dedans l’ame frapée, M’a vivement son pourtrait engravé. Et soit que j’erre au plus haut des montagnes Ou dans un bois, loin de gens et de bruit, Ou dans les prés, ou parmy les campaignes, Toujours à l’oeil ce beau pourtrait me suit. Si j’aperçoy quelque champ qui blondoye D’espics frisez au travers des sillons, Je pense voir ses beaux cheveux de soye, Refrisottés en mille crespillons. Si j’aperçoi quelque table carrée D’ivoire ou jaspe aplani proprement, Je pense veoir la voûte mesurée De son beau front égallé pleinement. Si le croissant au premier mois j’avise, Je pense voir son sourcil ressemblant A l’arc d’un Turc qui la sagette a mise Dedans la coche, et menace le blanc. Quand à mes yeux les estoilles drillantes Viennent la nuict en temps calme s’offrir, Je pense voir ses prunelles ardantes, Que je ne puis ny fuire ny souffrir. Quand j’apperçoy la rose sur l’espine, Je pense voir de ses lèvres le teint ; Mais la beauté de l’une au soir decline, L’autre beauté jamais ne se desteint. Quand j’apperçoy les fleurs dans une prée S’espanouir au lever du soleil, Je pense voir de sa face pourprée Et de son sein le beau lustre vermeil. Si j’apperçoy quelque chesne sauvage, Qui jusqu’au ciel éleve ses rameaux, Je pense en luy contempler son corsage, Ses pieds, sa grève, et ses coudes jumeaux. Si j’enten bruire une fontaine claire, Je pense ouyr sa voix dessus le bord, Qui, se plaignant de ma triste misere, M’appelle à soy pour me donner confort. Voilà comment, pour estre fantastique, En cent façons ses beautez j’apperçoy, Et m’esjouy d’estre melancholique, Pour recevoir tant de formes en moy. Aimer vrayment est une maladie ; Les medecins la sçavent bien juger, En la nommant fureur de fantaisie, Qui ne se peut par herbes soulager. J’aimerois mieux la fièvre dans mes veines, Ou quelque peste, ou quelque autre douleur, Que de souffrir tant d’amoureuses peines, Qui sans tuer nous consomment le coeur. Or-va, Chanson, dans le sein de Marie, Qui me fait vivre en penible soucy, Pour l’asseurer que ce n’est tromperie Des visions que je raconte icy.
P. Cléreau sets stanzas 1-2
R. de Lassus sets stanzas 1-2
A. Roussel sets stanza 1
About the headline (FAQ)
View original text (without footnotes)1 Lassus, Roussel: "de"
2 Lassus : "me desroba"
Authorship:
- by Pierre de Ronsard (1524 - 1585), no title [author's text checked 1 time against a primary source]
Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive):
- by Pierre Cléreau (c1515 - 1569), "Je ne veux plus que chanter de tristesse", stanzas 1-2 [sung text checked 1 time]
- by Roland de Lassus (1532 - 1594), "Je ne veux plus que chanter de tristesse", stanzas 1-2 [sung text checked 1 time]
- by Albert Roussel (1869 - 1937), "Je ne veux plus que chanter de tristesse", stanza 1 [sung text checked 1 time]
Available translations, adaptations or excerpts, and transliterations (if applicable):
- ENG English (David Wyatt) , copyright © 2014, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
Researcher for this page: David Wyatt
This text was added to the website: 2014-10-27
Line count: 84
Word count: 568
I want no more than to sing [of my]1 sadness For I could not sing of anything else Seeing that I am away from my mistress. If I sang of other things I would die. So as not to die, I must therefore sing In pitiful songs of my woeful weakness On the departure of my absent mistress Who [has stolen]2 the heart from my bosom. Already Summer, and Ceres the corn goddess, Her brow adorned with her gifts, Have brought in the nourishing harvest Since the time that, dead, I have been away From her fair eyes whose lovely light Alone could give me healing And even if I were in the beyond, in my coffin, That light could make me return to the world. But my reason is so completely corrupted By false imagination That night and day I carry her before my eyes And without seeing her I have her in my sight. Like one who contemplates the clouds Thinks that he sees a thousand shapes up there Men, birds and horned chimaera, Yet sees nothing, for his eyes are deceived. And like he who with deep breaths In high seas by the power of his arms Pull the oar, he makes some mistake And suddenly, broken in the sea, it is not there, So I see through a trick of my sight She who has deprived me of all sense, Which striking my soul through my eyes Has vividly engraved her portrait within me. And if I wandered over the highest mountains Or in a wood far from people and noise Or in the meadows, or the countryside, Always this lovely portrait is there to my eye. If I see some field yellowing With corn waving across the furrows I think I see her lovely silken her Crimped again in thousands of little curls. If I see some squared-off table Made of ivory or jasper, finely planed, I think I see plainly equalled The finely-proportioned arc of her brow. If I see the crescent moon at the start of the month I think I see her eyebrows, like A Turk’s bow when he’s nocked an arrow And threatens the white man. When the twinkling stars come and offer themselves To my eyes at night in calm weather I think I am seeing her burning pupils Which I can neither flee nor endure. When I spy the rose on its thorn I think I see the colour of her lips But the beauty of the one wanes at evening, The other beauty never fades. When I see flowers in a meadow Opening at the sun’s rising I think I’m seeing the charming crimson tint Of her flushed face and of her breast. If I see some wild oak Lifting its branches to the sky I think in it I see her waist Her feet, her legs, her twin arms. If I hear the sound of a clear spring I think I’m hearing her voice over the bank Which, pitying my sad distress, Calls me to itself to give me comfort. That’s how fantastical I am In a hundred ways I see her beauty And rejoice to be unhappy Since I perceive her in so many shapes. To love is truly an illness Doctors know well how to diagnose it In defining it as a madness of fantasy Which cannot be cured with medicine. I’d prefer fever in my veins Or some kind of plague or other illness Than to suffer so many pains for love Whose good-feeling is nothing but feeling-bad. So, my song, go to Marie’s breast Which makes me live in terrible pain. To assure her that they’re no lie, These visions that I speak of here.
About the headline (FAQ)
View original text (without footnotes)1 Lassus: "of"
2 Lassus: "stole"
Authorship:
- Translation from French (Français) to English copyright © 2014 by David Wyatt, (re)printed on this website with kind permission. To reprint and distribute this author's work for concert programs, CD booklets, etc., you may ask the copyright-holder(s) directly or ask us; we are authorized to grant permission on their behalf. Please provide the translator's name when contacting us.
Contact: licenses@email.lieder.example.net
Based on:
- a text in French (Français) by Pierre de Ronsard (1524 - 1585), no title
This text was added to the website: 2014-10-27
Line count: 84
Word count: 622