Quan chai la fueilha
e·l freitz s’ergueilha
| don seca·l vais’ e·l vims |
del dous refrims
mas ieu sui prims
| d’Amor, qui que s’en tueilha. |
Tot quant es gela,
| mas ieu non puesc frezir, |
qu’amors novella
non dei fremir,
| qu’Amors mi cuebr’ e·m cela |
e·m fai tenir
Bona es vida
que tals n’escrida
no sai de re
que per ma fe
| del mieilhs ai ma partida. |
De drudaria
qu’autrui paria
ges ab sa par
qu’una non par
No vueilh s’asemble
si qu’ieu ja·il m’emble
non ai paor
| que ja celh de Pontremble |
n’aia gensor
| de lieis ni que la semble. |
Ges non es croia
de sai Savoia
tals m’abelis
non ac Paris
Tan pareis genta
las gensors trenta,
ben es razos
| doncas que mos chans senta, |
quar es tan pros
Vai t’en chansos,
que s’ill no fos
| no·i metr’ Arnautz s’ententa. |
|
When tumbles down the leaf
| midst the high trees up thither |
and freezing gives such grief
| that hazel and willow wither; |
of sweetest bird-refrain
| the woods mute in the cold; |
but for Love am I most fain,
All’s iced, here down, above,
| but I feel not the chill, |
because a fresh new love
| makes my heart greener still, |
nor ought I ever quake,
| since Love enfolds and hides me, |
and makes me firmly take
| on courage, thus it guides me. |
Goodly indeed is life
though men who suffer strife
| may well lament its pains; |
I am myself most loth
| with fortune to fall out, |
since I’ve shared, on my oath,
| the best without a doubt. |
Of chivalrous dalliance
| know I nought worth blaming, |
though other sports who chance
from those who might be her peer
no other one comes near,
I wish not to connect
in case my luck defect
| and she should turn elsewhere; |
I never even fret
is slightly of her set
| or ever could seem to be. |
There is no cruel ploy
| in her, my most endeared; |
on this side of Savoy
she makes me more than glad,
than even Paris had
So gracious her proceeding
the noblest spheres exceeding
| in most attractive fashion; |
so good this cause of mine
| that she must hear my lays, |
she is so gentle and fine,
| deserving richest praise. |
Along, my song, you go,
| until you be in her coil, |
since were she not, Arnaut
| would not put in this toil. |
|