Epitaph
Épitaphe
Paul Scarron (1610-60)
Épitaphe
Celui qui ci maintenant dort
Fit plus de pitié que d’envie,
Et souffrit mille fois la mort
Avant que de perdre la vie.
Passant, ne fais ici de bruit,
Prends garde qu’aucun ne l’éveille;
Car voici la première nuit
Que le pauvre Scarron sommeille.
Epitaph
A sleepyhead here is laid:
He was much less envied than pitied,
who a thousand times over was dead,
before of his life he was quitted.
So don't make a sound as you pass:
don't waken him, don't molest:
tonight's the first time, alas,
that Scarron has had a good rest.
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by Paul Scarron...
Song
Chanson
Pierre Corneille (1606-84)
Chanson
Si je perds bien des maîtresses,
J’en fais encor plus souvent,
Et mes voeux et mes promesses
Ne sont que feintes caresses,
Et mes voeux et mes promesses
Ne sont jamais que du vent.
Quand je vois un beau visage,
Soudain je me fais de feu,
Mais longtemps lui faire hommage,
Ce n’est pas bien mon usage,
Mais longtemps lui faire hommage,
Ce n’est pas bien là mon jeu.
J’entre bien en complaisance
Tant que dure une heure ou deux,
Mais en perdant sa présence
Adieu toute souvenance,
Mais en perdant sa présence
Adieu soudain tous mes feux.
Plus inconstant que la lune
Je ne veux jamais d’arrêt;
La blonde comme la brune
En moins de rien m’importune,
La blonde comme la brune
En moins de rien me déplaît.
Si je feins un peu de braise,
Alors que l’humeur m’en prend,
Qu’on me chasse ou qu’on me baise,
Qu’on soit facile ou mauvaise,
Qu’on me chasse ou qu’on me baise,
Tout m’est fort indifférent.
Mon usage est si commode,
On le trouve si charmant,
Que qui ne suit ma méthode
N’est pas bien homme à la mode,
Que qui ne suit ma méthode
Passe pour un Allemand.
Song
I lose many mistresses,
Gain more, to spare.
My vows and my promises,
Kisses, just ruses:
My vows and my promises,
Wind, light as air.
I see a sweet visage,
I’m quickly aflame
But drawing out homage
Just isn’t my usage,
But drawing out homage
Just isn’t my game.
I’ll join in complaisance
For one or two hours,
But losing her presence
It’s bye-bye remembrance,
But losing her presence,
Farewell all my fires.
I’m a moon of no constance,
I don’t stop or stall,
Brunettance or blondance
I feel no repugnance,
Brunettance or blondance,
Reluctance, at all.
I act a bit steamy
When feeling inclined:
They shoo me or woo me,
Turn dreadful or dreamy,
They shoo me or woo me,
I simply don’t mind.
So neat is my custom
They all find it charming.
You don't do my system?
You’ve no savoir faire, man!
You don't do my system?
You’d pass for a German.
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by Pierre Corneille...
By toil, not by flattery
Durch mühen, nicht durch schmeicheln
Friedrich von Logau (1605-55)
Durch mühen, nicht durch schmeicheln
Redlich will ich lieber schwitzen,
Als die Heuchler-Bank besitzen.
Besser harte Fäuste strecken,
Als von fremdem Schweiße lecken.
Besser was mit Noth erwerben,
Als gut leben, furchtsam sterben.
By toil, not by flattery
Be a lounging hypocrite?
Truly, I would rather sweat.
Better make hard fists and go
Than lick sweat from someone’s brow.
Better strive successfully
Than live soft and, fearful, die.
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by Friedrich von Logau...
Las Clavellinas de Indias
Indian Pinks
Salvador Jacinto Polo de Medina (1603-76)
Indian Pinks
Breve tesoro, rica flor indiana,
y sol rizado en hojas,
oro florido que tu patria niegas,
que a tu oriente despojas
y en extranjeros valles te avecinas,
y a ser desvelo llegas
de laureles y rústicas encinas.
Por ti en alado pino,
por selvas de coral, pasó animoso
el avariento, el vano codicioso,
sin que el fatal destino
que le asalta, presuma
en valles de cristal, montes de espuma.
Las Clavellinas de Indias
Brief treasure, Indian rich flower,
And sun curled into petals:
This flowered gold betrays
Its country, robs its eastern bower,
In foreign valleys settles,
Arriving in the vigils
Of rustic oaks and laurels.
For this in his winged vessel
One, vaunting, avaricious,
Comes covetously, travels
Through reefs and groves of corals,
Ambitious;
Nor does the deadly power
Of fate, that takes the cudgels,
Presume
In crystal vales to raise
Mountains of spume.
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by Salvador Jacinto Polo de Medina...
Friendship
AMISTAD
Juan Ruiz de Alarcón (1581?-1639)
AMISTAD
Aumento de la próspera fortuna
y alivio en la infeliz; maestra llave
que con un natural secreto sabe
dos voluntades encerrar en una;
del humano gobierno la coluna;
ancla segura de la incierta nave
de la vita mortal: fuero suave
que en paz mantiene cuanto ve la luna
es la santa amistad, virtud divina
que no dilata el premio de tenella,
pues ella misma es de si misma el fruto;
a quien naturaleza tanto inclina
que al hombre que vivir sabe sin ella
sabe avisar el animal más bruto.
Friendship
Makes good times better; remedy
When times are hard; a master-key
That works the trick, knows how it’s done,
Clasps two strong wills and makes them one;
Backbone of human conduct; sure
Anchor of this life’s insecure
Ship; the mild law that keeps the peace
For everything the bright moon sees:
Friendship, pure goodness, heaven-sent:
To have it is an instant gain,
Because it is its own self’s fruit;
It’s Mother Nature’s natural bent;
And those without it can obtain
Advice from some four-footed brute.
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by Juan Ruiz de Alarcón...
The Midge and the Frog
El Mosquito y la Rana
Francisco de Quevedo (1580-1645)
El Mosquito y la Rana
Dijo a la rana el mosquito
desde una tinaja;
"Mejor es morir en el vino
que vivir en el agua".
Agua no me satisface,
sea clara, limpia y pura;
pues aun con cuanto mormura,
menos mal dice que hace.
Nadie quiero que me cace;
morir quiero en mi garlito.
Dijo a la rana el mosquito
desde una tinaja;
"Mejor es morir en el vino
que vivir en el agua".
En el agua hay solos peces;
y, para que más te corras,
en vino hay lobos y zorras
y aves, como yo, a las veces.
En cueros hay pez y peces;
todo cabe en mi distrito.
Dijo a la rana el mosquito
desde una tinaja;
"Mejor es morir en el vino
que vivir en el agua".
No te he de perdonar cosa,
pues que mi muerte disfamas;
y si borracho me llamas,
yo te llamaré aguanosa.
Tú en los charcos enfadosa;
yo en las bodegas habito.
Dijo a la rana el mosquito
desde una tinaja;
"Mejor es morir en el vino
que vivir en el agua".
¿Qué tienes tú que tratar,
grito de cienos y lodos,
pues tragándome a mí todos,
nadie te puede tragar?
Cantora de muladar,
yo soy luquete bendito.
Dijo a la rana el mosquito
desde una tinaja;
"Mejor es morir en el vino
que vivir en el agua".
Yo soy ángel de la uva,
y en los sótanos más frescos,
ruiseñor de los tudescos,
sin acicate ni tuba.
Yo estoy siempre en una cuba,
y tú estás siempre en un grito.
Dijo a la rana el mosquito
desde una tinaja;
"Mejor es morir en el vino
que vivir en el agua".
The Midge and the Frog
Said the Midge in the Vat
to the Frog: “It is better
to die in the wine
than to live in the water.
I don’t care for water
clear, limpid and pure;
so loud in its chatter,
it harms you still more.
“I don’t need a catcher,
glad to die by this lure.”
Said the Midge in the Vat
to the Frog: “It is better
to die in the wine
than to live in the water.
In water, just fishes
keep you sharp on your toes;
in vines, wolves and vixens,
and birds, my winged foes.
Pitch and fish line my wineskins,
where anything goes.”
Said the Midge in the Vat
to the Frog: “It is better
to die in the wine
than to live in the water.”
“You shan’t be forgiven,
my death you’ve belittled;
I can say you are sodden
if you say l’m befuddled.
I’m a clean cellar-dweller,
You’re a pest in a puddle.”
Said the Midge in the Vat
to the Frog: “It is better
to die in the wine
than to live in the water.
What airs you put on,
Swamp-squawker, bog-blast!
You eat me and mine,
but you’re no-one’s repast.
You sing songs in the dung,
I’m the zest that is blest.”
Said the Midge in the Vat
to the Frog: “It is better
to die in the wine
than to live in the water.
“Where the cellar is cool
I’m the grape’s guardian angel,
the Rhine’s nightingale,
no spur and no bugle.
“This vat is my stall,
yours is turmoil and trouble!”
Said the Midge in the Vat
to the Frog: “It is better
to die in the wine
than to live in the water.”
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by Francisco de Quevedo...
He Drinks Superb Wine With Midges In It
Bebe Vino Precioso Con Mosquitos Dentro
Francisco de Quevedo (1580-1645)
Bebe Vino Precioso Con Mosquitos Dentro
Tudescos Moscos de los sorbos finos,
Caspa de las azumbres más sabrosas,
Que porque el fuego tiene mariposas,
Queréis que el mosto tenga marivinos.
Aves luquetes, átomos mezquinos,
Motas borrachas, pájaras vinosas,
Pelusas de los vinos envidiosas,
Abejas de la miel de los tocinos,
Liendres de la vendimia, yo os admito
En mi gaznate pues tenéis por soga
Al nieto de la vid, licor bendito.
Tomá en el trazo hacia mi nuez la boga,
Que bebiéndoos a todos, me desquito
Del vino que bebistes y os ahoga.
He Drinks Superb Wine With Midges In It
German midges, fine-wine quaffers,
scum on double-quarts of flavours:
as a blaze draws butterflies
you fill vats with vatterflies.
Zooming zestlets, pesky atoms,
whizz-winged winos, blotto flotsams,
treacle-bees grotesquely skipping,
scruff-ticks covetously sipping,
vintage-nits, you’ve roped and netted
vine’s descendant, keen to swill it.
See my gullet? You’re admitted!
Scull towards my Adam’s apple,
drain and drown in hallowed tipple.
Down you go! and I am quitted.
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by Francisco de Quevedo...
A una Nariz
To A Nose
Francisco de Quevedo (1580-1645)
To A Nose
Érase un hombre a una nariz pegado,
érase una nariz superlativa,
érase una nariz sayón y escriba,
érase un peje espada muy barbado,
Era un reloj de sol mal encarado,
érase una alquitara pensativa,
érase un elefante boca arriba,
era Ovidio Nasón más narizado,
Érase un espolón de una galera,
érase una pirámide de Egito:
los doce tribus de narices era,
Érase un naricísimo infinito,
muchísimo nariz, nariz tan fiera,
que en la cara de Anás fuera delito.
A una Nariz
There was a nose, which had a man appended.
It was a nose superb, superlative,
it was a nose, a hangman and a scribe,
it was a swordfish, sharp and hairy-ended.
It was a solar clock in discomposure,
a pronged alembic, querulous and nervy,
it was an elephant turned topsy-turvy,
it was Ovidius Naso, only nosier,
it was the Pyramid of Oxyrhynchus,
it was a figurehead for seaborne warriors,
it was a whole twelve tribes of errant honkers,
it was infinity of nasal noseness,
a nose too total and a nose too glorious,
a crime that would besmirch the face of Annas.
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by Francisco de Quevedo...
Battus, Ergastus cried:
Batto, qui pianse Ergasto
Giambattista Marino
Batto, qui pianse Ergasto
“Batto, qui pianse Ergasto, ecco la riva
ove, mentre seguia cerva fugace,
fuggendo Clori il suo pastor seguace,
non so se più seguiva o se fuggiva.
Deh, mira! — egli dicea — se fugitiva
fera pur saettar tanto ti piace,
saetta questo cor che soffre in pace
le piaghe, anzi ti segue e non le schiva.
Lasso, non m’odi?” E qui tremante e fioco
e tacque e giacque. A questi ultimi accenti
l’empia si volse e rimirollo un poco.
Allor di nove Amor fiamme cocenti
l’accese. Or chi dirà che non sia foco
l’umor che cade da due lumi ardenti?
Battus, Ergastus cried:
Battus, Ergastus cried: this is the hollow
where the fair Chloris chased the fleeing doe,
and fled her chasing swain: nor do I know
if she strove more to flee, or more to follow.
‘Look!’ he exclaimed. ‘You take such joy in hunting
the flitting hart: you shoot it as you please:
then shoot my heart! It bears its wounds in peace,
even pursues you, careless of the wounding.
You do not hear me out!’ Dry–lipped and shaking,
here he fell down, and lay, no longer speaking.
She, cruel, briefly turned on him her eyes.
Love with new searing flames set him alight.
A humour spills from two eyes burning bright:
a humour, which is fire, as none denies.
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by Giambattista Marino...
Quot praesunt lacrimae: my Latin
If You Have Tears
William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
If You Have Tears
If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.
You all do know this mantle. I remember
The first time ever Caesar put it on.
’Twas on a summer’s evening in his tent,
That day he overcame the Nervii.
Look, in this place ran Cassius’ dagger through.
See what a rent the envious Casca made.
Through this the well-belovèd Brutus stabbed,
And, as he plucked his cursèd steel away,
Mark how the blood of Caesar followed it,
As rushing out of doors to be resolved
If Brutus so unkindly knocked or no;
For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar’s angel.
Judge, O you gods, how dearly Caesar loved him!
This was the most unkindest cut of all.
For when the noble Caesar saw him stab,
Ingratitude, more strong than traitors’ arms,
Quite vanquished him. Then burst his mighty heart,
And, in his mantle muffling up his face,
Even at the base of Pompey’s statue
(Which all the while ran blood) great Caesar fell.
O, what a fall was there, my countrymen!
Then I and you and all of us fell down,
Whilst bloody treason flourished over us.
O, now you weep, and I perceive you feel
The dint of pity. These are gracious drops.
Kind souls, what, weep you when you but behold
Our Caesar’s vesture wounded? Look you here,
Antony lifts Caesar’s cloak.
Here is himself, marred as you see with traitors.
Quot praesunt lacrimae: my Latin
quot praesunt lacrimae, fiatis fundere prompti.
omnibus hic vobis constat bene notus amictus;
tempore quem primo – memori mihi credite – Caesar
induit, ipse dies aestu cum mollior ibat,
castra ubi tenta fuere, die quo vicerat Hainam
Belgarumque tribum validum Hanoniensibus arvis.
aspicite: hic sica percussit Cassius; immo
hic lacerum irrupsit Casca invidiosus amictum;
percutit hic scissum delectu Brutus amatus;
quin etiam ut Brutus maledictum subtrahit ensem,
insequitur, spectate, cruor, velut ocius exit,
haud aliter, quam si Brutum reperire volebat,
an feriat portas vix comiter, anne vacaret:
deliciae nam Brutus erat, sua summa voluptas.
volvite, di, quanta Brutum face Caesar amavit!
hoc gravius vulnus: fuit haud crudelius ullum;
viderat ut Brutum Caesar pulsare, quod armis
fortius infidis, mens ingratissima tantum
devicit penitus: jacet, en! cor nobile ruptum:
os tegit in palla; Pompeii sanguinolenta
leto sub statua ruit ingens Caesar ademptus.
quantus erat, cives, ibi casus, quanta ruina!
quin ego, quin et vos et nos occumbimus omnes;
fraus et proditio florebant more cruento.
funditis, heu! lacrimas: misereri vulnere tactos
percipio, fletum generosum. at fletis amictum
Caesaris attactum modo? sed deflectite visum:
ipse homo Caesar adest, falsorum saucius actis.
Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès
More poems by William Shakespeare...