If you can Sob

If you have Tears

William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

Let's see whether he needed the letter E.
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.  
If you can Sob
If you can sob, stand by to do so now. You all do know this blouson: I look back to That first occasion Julius put it on: ‘Twas in July at twilight in his camp, That day of martial triumph by Namur…. Look at this gap that Cassius’ dirk ran through. Look what a gash invidious Casca dug; Through this, look! darling Brutus stuck his shiv, And, as his loathly sharp was drawn away, Mark you how Julius’ blood, pursuing it, Shot rushing out of doors, to find this out, If Brutus so unkindly rang, or no; For Brutus, as you know, was Julius’crush: Quantify, O you gods, how fond of him Julius was. This was a cut unkind, And singularly so. As Julius, So upright, saw him stab, what got him down Was not just traitors’ arms. A total lack Of thankful thinking laid him low, and burst His mighty mainspring. Muffling up his phiz Within his coat, right by Sir Magnus’s Statuary, or its plinth, which ran throughout With blood, down Julius falls. O what a fall Was that, my good compatriots! You and I And all our crowd brought low, whilst riding high Was bloody traitors’ triumph, flourishing. O, now you sob; that’s how I know you got Struck hard by pity’s dint. What gracious drops! Kind souls, what, do you sob and only scan Wounds upon Julius' garb? Just look at this! (Antony lifts J.C.’s cloak.) It’s actually him, whom traitors hurt.
See also my Latin translation.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Violet Calls on me to Compose a Sonnet

Un soneto me manda hacer Violante

Lope de Vega (1562-1635)

Un soneto me manda hacer Violante
Un soneto me manda hacer Violante que en mi vida me he visto en tanto aprieto; catorce versos dicen que es soneto; burla burlando van los tres delante. Yo pensé que no hallara consonante, y estoy a la mitad de otro cuarteto; mas si me veo en el primer terceto, no hay cosa en los cuartetos que me espante. Por el primer terceto voy entrando, y parece que entré con pie derecho, pues fin con este verso le voy dando. Ya estoy en el segundo, y aun sospecho que voy los trece versos acabando; contad si son catorce, y está hecho.
Violet Calls on me to Compose a Sonnet
I'm keeping busy! Now, I have to frame a sonnet, by command of Violet. In sonnets, fourteen lines are what you get: the first three make it look an easy game. I thought I’d find no word that ends the same! And now I’m halfway through the second set: but, thinking forward to the first tercet, the quatrains are comparatively tame. The first tercet is starting, I’ve just spotted! Off on the right foot first I entered on it, so in this line the same is duly slotted. I’m on the second tercet of my sonnet: already thirteen lines are crossed and dotted. Count up – fourteen, I fancy – yes, I’ve done it.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Shepherd of Pearls

Zagalejo de Perlas

Lope de Vega (1562-1635)

Zagalejo de Perlas
Zagalejo de perlas, hijo del Alba, ¿dónde vais que hace frío tan de mañana? Como sois lucero del alma mía, al traer el día nacéis primero; pastor y cordero sin choza y lana, ¿dónde vais que hace frío tan de mañana? Perlas en los ojos, risa en la boca, las almas provoca a placer y enojos; cabellitos rojos, boca de grana, ¿dónde vais que hace frío tan de mañana? Que tenéis que hacer, pastorcito santo, madrugando tanto lo dais a entender; aunque vais a ver disfrazado el alma, ¿dónde vais que hace frío tan de mañana?
Shepherd of Pearls
Shepherd of pearls, child of the Dawn, where must you go this cold early morn? Light of my soul, star of the morn, you bring the day, you the first-born. Shepherd and sheep, shelterless, shorn, where must you go this cold early morn? Eyes full of pearls, lips full of joy, teaser of souls, soothe or annoy: Ruby-child, blow, rose-lip, your horn: where must you go this cold early morn? What must you do, saint of the sheep, honest and true, world still asleep? Cloak of the soul, lowliness worn, where must you go this cold early morn?

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Sonnet 166

Soneto 166

Luis de Góngora (1561-1627)

Soneto 166
Mientras por competir con tu cabello oro bruñido el Sol relumbra en vano, mientras con menosprecio en medio el llano mira tu blanca frente el lilio bello; mientras a cada labio, por cogello, siguen más ojos que al clavel temprano, y mientras triunfa con desdén lozano del luciente cristal tu gentil cuello; goza cuello, cabello, labio y frente, antes que lo que fue en tu edad dorada oro, lilio, clavel, cristal luciente, no sólo en plata o víola troncada se vuelva, mas tú y ello juntamente en tierra, en humo, en polvo, en sombra, en nada.
Sonnet 166
If now in competition with your hair the burnished golden sun shines forth in vain, and if your snowy brow amid the plain looks down in triumph on the lily fair, if now to pluck those lips more eyes are fain than gillyflowers that blossom in spring air, if your fine neck is pure beyond compare, purer than crystal, with a mild disdain: rejoice in hair, and neck, and lips, and brow; for time shall turn and fade your palmy day of pinks and lilies, gold and crystal show, to silver and to violet’s decay. Even yourself shall altogether go to earth, smoke, dust, and shade, and pass away.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Ballad of the Moor who Lost Alhama

Romance del moro que perdió Alhama

Anon

Alhama was an outlying stronghold. To lose it was doom for the Moors in Granada.
Romance del moro que perdió Alhama
Paseábase el rey moro por la ciudad de Granada desde la puerta de Elvira hasta la de Vivarrambla. —¡Ay de mi Alhama!— Cartas le fueron venidas que Alhama era ganada. Las cartas echó en el fuego y al mensajero matara, —¡Ay de mi Alhama!— Descabalga de una mula, y en un caballo cabalga; por el Zacatín arriba subido se había al Alhambra. —¡Ay de mi Alhama!— Como en el Alhambra estuvo, al mismo punto mandaba que se toquen sus trompetas, sus añafiles de plata. —¡Ay de mi Alhama!— Y que las cajas de guerra apriesa toquen el arma, porque lo oigan sus moros, los de la vega y Granada. —¡Ay de mi Alhama!— Los moros que el son oyeron que al sangriento Marte llama, uno a uno y dos a dos juntado se ha gran batalla. —¡Ay de mi Alhama!— Allí fabló un moro viejo, de esta manera fablara: —¿Para qué nos llamas, rey, para qué es esta llamada? —¡Ay de mi Alhama!— —Habéis de saber, amigos, una nueva desdichada: que cristianos de braveza ya nos han ganado Alhama. —¡Ay de mi Alhama!— Allí fabló un alfaquí de barba crecida y cana: —Bien se te emplea, buen rey, buen rey, bien se te empleara. —¡Ay de mi Alhama!— Mataste los Bencerrajes, que eran la flor de Granada, cogiste los tornadizos de Córdoba la nombrada. —¡Ay de mi Alhama!— Por eso mereces, rey, una pena muy doblada: que te pierdas tú y el reino, y aquí se pierda Granada. —¡Ay de mi Alhama!—
Ballad of the Moor who Lost Alhama
The Moorish King was passing through the city of Granada From the gate of Elvira to that of Vivarrambla. To him had come despatches that Alhama had been taken. He threw them on the fire and put to death the bearer. Dismounting from the jenny and riding on a warhorse, Up through the Zacatín he came to the Alhambra. On reaching the Alhambra he straightway gave an order: He bade them sound the trumpets, the añafils of silver, To open up the war-chests and quickly arm for battle, That all the Moors should hear it in the plain and in Granada. The Moors who heard the tocsin that called to bloody combat One by one, two by two joined in a great battalion. An aged Moor gave voice and spoke up in this manner: ‘Why do you call us, King? What reason for the summons?’ ‘This you must know, my friends, new tidings of misfortune: That daring Christian men have taken our Alhama.’ Then spoke a learned doctor, his beard well-grown and hoary: ‘Good King, you are well served, good King, you are served fairly. ‘You slew the Abencerrajes, once the flower of Granada, You seized the renegades of Cordova the renowned. For this, King, you deserve a penalty redoubled: You and your kingdom lost, and lost alike Granada.’

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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The Pyrenees

Les Pyrénées

Guillaume, Sieur du Bartas (1544-90)

The Lord of Salluste was a Huguenot who fought for Henry of Navarre (Henri IV of France). His epic poem on the Creation of the World was hugely admired, not least by Milton and Goethe. Nerval hailed him as a precursor, an ‘ancestor’. One of his many translators was James VI of Scotland: he was sent there to try for a marriage of James to Henry’s sister. He also went to Denmark. Honneyman speculated that some of Shakespeare’s Sonnets are translations of suppressed work by Agrippa d’Aubigné, a poet at the Navarrese court: that Henry himself was the Fair Friend, his Queen Marguerite the Dark Lady, and du Bartas the Rival Poet. I wrote an old–fashioned version and a modern version. Only on this website have they appeared together!
Les Pyrénées
François, arreste–toi, ne passe la campagne Que Nature mura de rochers d’un costé, Que l’Auriège entrefend d’un cours précipité; Campagne qui n’a point en beauté de compagne. Passant, ce que tu vois n’est point une montagne: C’est un grand Briarée, un géant haut monté Qui garde ce passage, et défend, indomté, De l’Espagne la France, et de France l’Espagne. Il tend à l’une l’un, à l’autre l’autre bras, Il porte sur son chef l’antique faix d’Atlas, Dans deux contraires mers il pose ses deux plantes. Les espaisses forests sont ses cheveux espais; Les rochers sont ses os; les rivières bruyantes L’éternelle sueur que luy cause un tel faix. François, arreste–toi, ne passe la campagne Que Nature mura de rochers d’un costé, Que l’Auriège entrefend d’un cours précipité; Campagne qui n’a point en beauté de compagne. Passant, ce que tu vois n’est point une montagne: C’est un grand Briarée, un géant haut monté Qui garde ce passage, et défend, indomté, De l’Espagne la France, et de France l’Espagne. Il tend à l’une l’un, à l’autre l’autre bras, Il porte sur son chef l’antique faix d’Atlas, Dans deux contraires mers il pose ses deux plantes. Les espaisses forests sont ses cheveux espais; Les rochers sont ses os; les rivières bruyantes L’éternelle sueur que luy cause un tel faix.
The Pyrenees
published in Outposts: Frenchman, hold hard, nor pass beyond that land That nature fortified with rocky walls, That Ariège thrusts through with headlong falls, Land garlanded, most gallant and most grand. What thou seest, passing here, is no high–land; Rather a mighty Briareus, a giant Set high to guard this passage, and, defiant, Spain’s way to France, France’s to Spain command. One arm to France, t’other to Spain is spread; Upon his crest sits Atlas’ ancient weight; His feet the two opposing seas betread. The thickets are the thick hairs of his head; The rocks his bones; the roaring mountain–spate, The sweat his burthen ever makes him shed. published in Modern Poetry in Translation: FRENCH NATIONALS STOP HERE. NO TRANSIT through The Ariège (Dept. no. 9). A natural break: cascade, scarp, anticline. No contest: champion country. Get that view! VISITORS THIS IS NOT A MOUNTAIN CHAIN. You’re looking at a brontosaurus which Has got across the middle of the pitch Showing a No Way card to France and Spain. Ne passez pas. No pase el paso usted. His spiky neck is what jacks up the sky; Feet in the Bay of Biscay and the Med; The forest canopy tops out his head; His bones are rocks. The long–term power supply? Sweat, leached from stress–points on the watershed.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Old Age

Categories
French

Old Age

Pierre de Ronsard (1524-85)

Ma douce jouvance est passée, Ma premiere force est cassée, J’ai la dent noire, et le chef blanc, Mes nerfs sont dissous, et mes venes, Tant j’ai le cors froid, ne sont plenes Que d’une eau rousse, en lieu de sang. Adieu ma Lyre, adieu fillettes, Jadis mes douces amourettes, Adieu, je sen venir ma fin, Nul passetans de ma jeunesse Ne m’accompagne en la vieillesse, Que le feu, le lit et le vin. J’ai la teste toute élourdie De trop d’ans, et de maladie, De tous costés le soin me mord: Et soit que j’aille ou je me tarde Toujours derriere moi regarde Si je verrai venir la mort, Qui doit, ce me semble, à toue heure Me mener là bas où demeure Je ne sçai quel Pluton, qui tient Ouvert à tous venans un antre Où bien facilement on entre, Mais d’où jamais on ne revient.
Old Age
Lost, my happy days of youth: White of head and black of tooth, Primal power broken up: Nerves are shot, and every vein (Poor cold body!) must contain – What? not blood, but reddish slop. Lute, farewell! Ta-ra, the lasses, Once my little loves – time passes! Palpably the end is nigh. Pleasures of my youth, goodbye! Failing health and heavy head. In my dotage, all decays: Nothing’s left from younger days: Only drink, and warmth, and bed! Gnawed by cares and getting older, If I go or if I stay, Must look back across my shoulder, Sure that death is on his way, Imminently taking me Down to some infernally Cavernous, wide open hall, Which we enter easily - Yes! All comers enter free - Never to return at all.
Published in Acumen no: 61.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Ronsard’s Choice of Epitaph

Categories
French

Ronsard’s Choice of Epitaph

Pierre de Ronsard (1524-85)

CELUY QUI GIST SOUS CETTE TOMBE ICY AIMA PREMIERE UNE BELLE CASSANDRE AIMA SECONDE UNE MARIE AUSSY, TANT EN AMOUR IL FUT FACILE A PRENDRE. DE LA PREMIERE IL EUT LE CŒUR TRANSY, DE LA SECONDE IL EUT LE CŒUR EN CENDRE, ET SI DES DEUX IL N'EUT ONCQUES MERCY
Ronsard’s Choice of Epitaph
He who lies beneath this stone loved Cassandra for a start; Mary too, a second one. Easy prey for Cupid's dart! Fair Cassandra pierced his heart, Mary seared it, burnt it down. Loved two women, thanked by none.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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To Cassandra

Pour Marie Dupin

Pierre de Ronsard (1524-85)

Pour Marie Dupin
Quand au temple nous serons Agenouillés nous ferons Les dévots selon la guise De ceux qui pour prier Dieu Humbles se courbent au lieu Le plus secret de l’église. Mais quand au lit nous serons Entrelacés nous ferons Les lascifs selon les guises Des amants qui librement Pratiquent folastrement Dans les draps cent mignardises. Pourquoi donque, quand je veux Ou mordre tes beaux cheveux, Ou baiser ta bouche aimée, Ou toucher à ton beau sein Contrefais-tu la nonnain Dedans un cloître enfermée ? […] Après ton dernier trépas, Grêle, tu n’auras là-bas Qu’une bouchette blêmie ; Et quand mort je te verrais Aux Ombres je n’avouerais Que jadis tu fus m’amie.
To Cassandra
In the temple on our knees we’ll play out the pieties, as do all those votaries praying, in God’s holy house, crouched in due observances, humble, inconspicuous. But in bed, between the sheets with our bodies interlaced, we, by lovers’ precedent free, lascivious and unchaste, shall in wild abandonment practise ten times ten delights. Why then, if I wish for this, or to bite your lovely hair, or to give your lips a kiss or to touch your bosom fair, will you imitate a Sister bottled up inside a cloister? When at last you’re dead and gone, spectral shadow, you shall have little mouth all wilted, wan. If I died and saw you down there, I’d never make it known you had been my lady-love.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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Sonnet for Sinope

Sonnet pour Sinope

Pierre de Ronsard (1524-85)

Sonnet pour Sinope
Si j'étais Jupiter, maîtresse, vous serìez Mon épouse Junon; si j'étais roi des ondes, Vous seriez ma Téthys, reine des eaux profondes, Et pour votre palais le monde vous auriez: Si le monde était mien, avec moi vous tiendriez L'empire de la terre aux mamelles fécondes, Et dessus un beau coche, en longues tresses blondes, Par le peuple en honneur déesse vous iriez. Mais je ne suis pas dieu, et si ne le puis être; Le ciel pour vous servir seulement m'a fait naître. De vous seule je prends mon sort aventureux. Vous êtes tout mon bien, mon mal, et ma fortune; S'il vous plaît de m'aimer, je deviendrai Neptune, Tout Jupiter, tout roi, tout riche et tout heureux.
Sonnet for Sinope
Lady, if I were Jupiter, you'd be Juno my spouse; or if I ruled the main, You would be Tethys, Ocean's mighty queen, And all the world your royal court would be. Were the world mine, as lords of ev'ry land The milk-fed, teeming empire we would share; You'd go in splendid coach and tresses fair, Honoured by all, a goddess in command. But I'm no god, and god I cannot be, Solely to serve you, heaven nurtured me; On you depends my lucky venturing. You are my good, my ill, and my fortune: If you will love me, I'll become Neptune, And Jupiter, rich, happy and a king.
Said for Dawn at my Ruby Wedding.

Translation: Copyright © Timothy Adès

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