Se un petit ay esté mus,
Je n’en puis mais,
Car pris sui et retenus,
Et au cuer trais
Tout en un lieu de .ij. trais
D’uns yex fendus,
Vairs, poingnans, ses et agus,
Rians et gais.

Car ma dame, que Diex gart,
Par un dous riant regart
D’Ardant Desir fist un dart
Et un d’Esperence.
Mais mort m’eüst, sans doubtance,
Desirs et sans deffiance
S’Espoirs ou j’ay ma fiance
Ne fust de ma part.

Car quant je senti l’espart
Dou regart qui mon cuer art,
Ne perdi, a tiers n’a quart,
Scens et contenance,
Mais tout maniere et puissance.
Lors me fist penre plaisence
En ma jolie souffrance
Espoirs par son art.

Mais ce durement m’esmaie,
Que ne say
Se ceste amoureuse plaie
Qu’au cuer ay
Vient d’Amours ou de cuer vray.
Car Dous Regars maint cuer plaie
Qu’ailleurs dame amy a gay.
S’en morray
S’einsi m’est; mais d’amour vraie
L’ameray.

Ne voloir que m’en retraie
Ja n’aray
Pour doleur que mes cuers traie.
Eins seray
Vrais et de cuer serviray
Ma dame plaisant et gaie.
Et quant mes jours fineray,
Sans delay
Mon cuer, que s’amour deplaie,
Li lairay.

Ne savoie
Quant fu pris
Se j’estoie
Mors ou vis.
N’entendoie
Gieu ne ris,
Eins sambloie
Homs ravis.
Ne queroie
Paradis,
Autre joie,
N’autre pris.
Ne sentoie
Riens tandis
Que veoie
Son cler vis,
Qui m’a de s’amour espris.

Toute voie
Je repris
En la coie
Mon avis;
A qui proie
Com sougis
Qu’elle m’oie.
Quar envis
Gariroie
S’escondis
Me trouvoie.
A toudis
Faut que soie
Ses amis;
Or soit moie.
Ne devis
Plus si seroie assevis.

Ne say se je dor ou veil
Quant son riant oueil,
Son gent corps qui n’a pareil,
Et son dous acueil
Voy, et son cointe appareil,
Simple et sans orgueil,
Et son vis blanc et vermeil
Plus que fleur en brueil,
A qui d’amer me conseil,
Dont maint plaisant mal recueil.

Son chief d’or samble au soleil,
Et s’a bel acueil;
Pour ce avoir autre conseil
Ja ne quier ne vueil.
Einsois dou tout m’apareil
A faire son vueil
Et a li servir m’esveil.
Qu’en li tel bien cueil
Dont je me seingne et merveil
Car tous vices en despueil.

Ne fait il bon tel dame amer
Et desirer,
Et honourer
Ou homs trouver
Ne puet amer,
Fors douceur fine a savourer?
Tresnoble destinee
Ha cils qui s’i puet assener
Sans dessevrer,
Qu’elle n’a per,
Eins est nomper;
Et, sans doubter,
On ne puet milleur regarder,
Ne si tresbele nee.

Dont doi je bien s’onneur garder
Et sans cesser
Ymaginer
A li porter
Foy sans fausser
Et la tout mon scens apliquer
Sans villeinne pensee.
Mais miex vorroie estre outre mer
Sans retourner
Qu’entroublier
Son dous vis cler,
Ne que penser
Chose qui peüst empirer
Sa bonne renommee.

Certes, j’ay si grant deport
Quant je voy son noble port
Et quant, sans vilein raport,
J’oy que chascuns son effort
Fait de li prisier tresfort
Dessus toute creature;
Que je n’ay pensee obscure,
Tristece, mal, ne pointure,
Ne chose qui me soit dure;
Eins ay une envoiseure
Si tres douce, et si tres pure
Qu’elle vaut mercy au fort.

Qu’en li veoir me deport;
En li servir me confort;
En li amer preng confort
Et l’espoir qui me fait fort
Contre desir qui me mort
(Mais riens ne doubt sa morsure).
Et s’on dist qu’elle m’est dure
Ou qu’elle n’a de moy cure,
Ne m’en chaut, qu’en sa figure
Preng si douce norriture!
Que ne doubt riens que j’endure
Mal d’amour ne desconfort.

Et quant je puis vivre einsi
Liement et sans sousci
Trop grant folour
Seroit de rouver s’amour
Ou sa mercy,
Car je n’ay pas desservi
Si grant honnour
Et si n’en sui par nul tour
Dignes aussi.

Tost m’aroit di: “va de ci.”
Helas! se ce avoie oÿ
De sa douçour,
Bien seroit la joie plour
Dou cuer de my
Car il partiroit par mi.
Pour ce demour
En souffrance et en cremour,
Subjés a li.

La sont mis tuit mi plaisir.
La m’ottroy.
La porter foy
Vueil bonnement.
La vueil amoureusement
Vivre et morir.
La me tir.
La mi desir;
Sont, la m’employ.
La maint tous le cuers de moy,
Entierement,
Doucement,
Et humblement
Pour li servir.

D’amer ne me puis tenir
Quant je voy
Le mainteing coy
De son corps gent,
A qui je sui ligement,
Sans retollir,
Sans partir,
Sans repentir.
Faire le doy,
Car cent mille biens reçoy
Contre un tourment.
Autrement,
Certeinnement,
N’ay a souffrir.

Si n’est vie
Si jolie
Com de desirer amie
En Espoir,
Qui chastie
Et maistrie
Desir, si qu’il n’ait maistrie
Ne pooir,

Qu’il detrie
Vie lie
Quant Espoirs ne s’amolie,
Pour ce avoir,
Quoy qu’on die,
Sans partie,
Vueil d’Espoir la compaingnie
Main et soir.

Car je fusse lonc temps a mors
S’il ne fust a martyre
Par l’ueil qui traÿ en mon corps
De desir une vire,
Qui ja n’en sera traite hors
Se m’amour ne l’en tire
Ou bons Espoirs, qui m’a des lors
Viseté com dous mire,
Et conforte mes desconfors
Doucement. Diex li mire!

C’est mes chastiaus, c’est mes ressors.
C’est ce qui estaint m’ire.
C’est li avoirs, c’est li tresors
Dont homs ne puet mesdire.
C’est de ma vie li drois pors.
C’est ma joie, a droit dire.
Tous li argens et tous li ors
De France et de l’Empire
Ne vaut pas l’un de ses confors
Ou Desespoirs s’aire.

Et quant ad ce sui venus
Qu’amis sui vrais
Et d’espoir bien pourveüs,
Un joli fais,
Gracieus, et plein de pais
M’est accreüs,
Qui ne sera mis ensus
De mi jamais.

Car se je amoie assez plus
Que je ne fais,
Et se heüsse plus que nuls
Pris en tous fais,
Si suis je norris, refais,
Et pourveüs
Largement, et bien peüs
De ses biens fais.

Guillaume de Machaut (c1300-1377)

If I’ve been somewhat quiet,
I can no longer be,
Being captured and held,
And shot through the heart
With two bolts right in one spot
By a pair of eyes,
Grey-green, piercing, charming, and striking,
Smiling and gay.

For my lady—may God save her!—
Through her sweet smiling look
Made one dart of burning Desire
And one of Hope.
But Desire, and there is no doubt,
Would have killed me with no warning
Had not Hope, in whom my trust is placed,
Been on my side.

For when I felt the glow
Of the look that burns my heart,
I lost not just a third or fourth
Of my wit and composure,
But all demeanour and power.
Then Hope made me take pleasure
In my sweet suffering
Through her skill.

But I am so completely dismayed,
Because I don’t know
If this lover’s wound
That’s in my heart
Comes from Love or a heart that’s true.
For Sweet Look wounds many a heart
When the lady has some other lover who pleases.
And I’ll die
Should this be so; but with a true love
I will love her.

I’ll never have the will
To draw back
Because of the pain that tries my heart.
Rather I’ll remain
True, serving from the heart
My pleasant and gay lady.
And when my days end,
At once,
My heart, wounded by her love,
I’ll bequeath to her.

I didn’t know
When captured
If I was
Dead or alive.
Nor did I hear
Game or laughter,
But seemed
A man struck dumb.
I did not seek
Paradise
Or other joy,
Or other worthiness.
Nor did I feel
Anything while
Looking upon
Her shining face,
Which set me aflame with love for her.

However
I found again
That quiet woman
My presence of mind;
To her I prayed
Like a subject
That she’d hear me.
I’d never
Be healed
If ever
She refused me.
I must
Forever be
Her friend;
Now may she be mine.
I’ll say
No more and be satisfied.

I know not if I sleep or wake
When her smiling eye,
Her noble form without rival,
And her sweet welcome
I look upon, her beautiful appearance too,
Simple without ostentation,
And her face, paler and rosier
Than a leaf from the woods,
Which counsels me to love,
From which I receive many pleasant pains.

Her golden hair is like the sun,
And the spot between her eyes is pretty;
For this reason I’d seek or wish
No other counsel.
Rather I make ready
To do her bidding
And be vigilant in her service.
For from her I receive such goodness
I am amazed and cross myself
Because all ills I cast aside.

Is it not good to love such a lady,
Desiring,
Honouring her
In whom a man
Can find no bitterness,
Only a pure sweetness to savour?
A very noble destiny
Awaits the man who can obtain this
Forever,
For she has no equal,
Is instead unrivalled;
Doubtless
There’s none better to be seen,
No other woman this well born.

And so I ought to guard well her honour
And without ceasing
Resolve
To bear her
Faith without disloyalty,
Devoting to her without impure thought
All my powers of mind.
Indeed I’d rather be across the sea
And not return
Than neglect
Her sweet, shining face,
Or entertain
Some thought that might harm
Her good reputation.

Surely I feel such great pleasure
When I look upon her noble person,
And when with no hint of scandal,
I hear that every man exerts
Himself to esteem her highly
Above all other women;
And so I have no gloomy thoughts,
No sadness, ills, or pain,
Nothing that troubles me;
Instead mine’s a pleasure
So very sweet, so very pure
That it merits the greatest thanks:

That in seeing her I find joy;
That serving her I am comforted;
That from loving her I take consolation
And hope that aids me mightily
Against desire, who stings me
(Yet I value as nothing his bite).
And if it’s said the lady’s hard on me
Or cares nothing for me,
I’m not concerned because I take
Such sweet nourishment from her!
I don’t fear anything I endure,
Neither lovesickness nor pain.

And since I can live this way
So happily and free from care
It would be great folly
To ask for her love
Or favour,
For I haven’t deserved
So great an honour
And am not worthy
In the least.

She’d tell me at once: ‘Get out!’
Alas, if I had heard this
From that sweet one
The joy would turn to tears
In this heart of mine
Since it would break in half.
So I remain
In anguish and fear,
Subjected to her.

All my pleasures lie in her.
To her I give myself.
To her I will gladly
Bear faith.
With her I want lovingly
To live and die.
To her I am drawn.
In her are my desires;
With her I spend myself.
In her dwells all my heart,
Entirely,
Sweetly,
Humbly
To serve her.

I cannot refrain from loving
When I look upon
The pleasant demeanour
Of her noble person,
Whose liege I am,
Without denial,
Without departing,
Without repenting.
This I must do,
Receiving a hundred thousand benefits
For every torment.
Otherwise,
Certainly
I’ve nothing to suffer.

And so there’s no way of life
So pleasant
As to desire a loved one
In Hope,
Who corrects
And masters
Desire, who then wields no dominion
Or power.

For Desire destroys
A happy life
When Hope does not soften him,
And so I want,
Whatever anyone might say,
Unceasingly
To enjoy Hope’s company
Morning and night.

For long ago I’d have been dead
Had Hope not been present at the suffering
That came from desire’s arrow,
Which struck my body through the eye
And never will be pulled out
If my love doesn’t do the job
Or good Hope, who before did
Visit me like a sweet physician,
Tenderly comforting
My discomfort. May God look upon her!

Hope is my castle, she’s my fortress.
She beats down my anger.
She’s the possession, she the treasure
That is beyond reproach.
She’s the true haven of my life.
She’s my joy, to tell the truth.
All the silver and all the gold
Of France and the Empire
Are not worth one of her comforts
When Despair launches an assault.

And when I came to the point
Of being a true lover
Well furnished with hope,
Something happy,
Gracious, and full of peace
Fell to my lot,
And never will it be
Beyond my reach.

For had I even more to bear
Than I do,
If I was more than any other man
Held in bondage at every turn,
Still I’d be sustained, healed,
And provided for
Generously, well looked after
By Hope’s good deeds.

English: R Barton Palmer © 2013