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Poem 13, Balade [The Languishing Lover]

[Ch XIII; MS #274]



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13. Balade



Oez les plains du martir amoureus,
Tous vrays amans, et plourez tendrement!
De le veoir vueilliez estre songneux
Et entendre comment piteusement
Fait les regrés du grief mal qui l’esprent.
Se vous povés, faites li brief secours.
Priés aussi a mains jointes Amours
Qu’il ait merci de son leal amant,
Car, par ma foy, veües ses doulours,
Il vit sans joye et languist en mourant.

Simple, pali, triste, las, doulereux,
En souspirant faisant son testament,
Disant ainsi en la fin de ses geus,
“Adieu, dame, pour qui muir humblement;
Mon cuer vous lay et vous en fay present;
Autre rien n’ay fors que plaintes et plours;
Ce sont les biens qu’en la fin de mes jours
Ay pour amer et estre vray servant.
Que fait mon cuer a cui Mort vient le cours?
‘Il vit sans joie et languist en mourant.’”

Venez au corps, larmes cheans des yeulx,
De noir vestu, priant devotement
Pour l’amoureux, pour le pou eüreux,
A cui Amours a esté liegement
Joie, confort, deduit, esbatement.
Ses plus grans biens sont plaintes et clamours.     
Et se savoir voulez par aucuns tours
Comment le las vit sa mort desirant,
Venez le voir, car certes, sans retours,
Il vit sans joie et languist en mourant.

13. [The Languishing Lover]



Listen to the laments of the martyr of Love,
Every true lover, and weep tenderly!
Please be attentive in watching him
And hearing how piteously
He makes complaints for the harsh evils which burn him.
If you can, render him some small aid,
Pray also to Love with hands joined
That he will have mercy on his loyal lover,
For, by my faith, considering his sorrows,
He lives without joy and languishes in dying.

Unhappy, grown pale, sad, miserable, sorrowful,
Making his testament while sighing,
Speaking thus at the end of his pleasures,
“Adieu, lady, for whom I humbly expire;
I leave you my heart and make you a present of it;
I have nothing except laments and tears.
These are the goods that I have at the end of my days
For loving and being a true servant.
What does my heart say, to which Death makes its way?
‘He lives without joy and languishes in dying.’”

Come to the body, tears falling from your eyes,
Dressed in black, praying devotedly
For the amorous, the seldom happy one,
To whom Love has been absolutely
Joy, comfort, delight, pleasure.
His greatest goods are laments and mourning,
And if you want to know in some fashion
How the miserable man lives hoping for death,
Come to see him, for surely, with no requital,
He lives without joy and languishes in dying.





















(t-note)