Et si me fait en desirant
Penser si amoureusement,
Que par force de desirer
Ma joie convient en tourment
Muer, se je n’ay hardement.
Las! et je n’en puis recouvrer,
Qu’Amours
Secours
Ne me vuet nul prester,
Qui en ses las si durement
Me tient que n’en puis eschaper;

Ne je ne vueil, qu’en atendant
Sa grace, je vueil humblement
Toutes ces dolours endurer;
Et s’Amours loyal le consent
Que ma douce dame au corps gent
Me vueille son ami clamer,
Je sai
De vray
Que arai, sans finer,
Joie qu’Amours a fin amant
Doit pour ses maus guerredonner;

Mais elle atent trop longuement,
Et j’aimme si folettement
Que je n’ose mercy rouver,
Car j’aim miex vivre en esperant
D’avoir mercy prochainnement,
Que Refus me veingne tuer,
Et pour ce di en soupirant:
Grant folie est de tant amer
Que de son dous face on amer.

motetus
Amour et biauté parfaite
Doubter,
Celer
Me font parfaitement,

Et vrais Desirs, qui m’afaite
De vous,
Cuers dous,
Amer sans finement;

Et quant j’aim si finement,
Merci
Vous pri,
Car elle me soit faite

Sans vostre honnour amenrir,
Car j’aim miex einsi languir
Et morir, s’il vous agree,
Que par moy fust empiree
Vostre honnour, que tant desir,
Ne de fait ne de pensee.

tenor
Amara valde.

And so She makes me in my desiring
Have thoughts so filled with love,
That by the strength of desiring
My joy must change to torment,
If I do not possess courage.
Alas! and I cannot find any,
Because Love
Has no intention
Of providing me with any help,
As She keeps me so tightly in her nets
That I cannot escape them;

Nor do I want to, since as I await
Her mercy, my humble wish is
To endure all these pains;
And if faithful Love consents
That my sweet lady with her noble appearance
Might wish to call me her friend,
I know
It as the truth
That I shall, endlessly, possess
The joy that Love owes a perfect lover
As a reward for his ills;

But she waits too long,
And I love so foolishly
That I do not dare beg for mercy,
For I prefer living in the hope
Of soon receiving mercy,
Rather than Refusal coming to finish me off,
And so I say with a sigh:
It is great folly to love so much
That you make your sweetness bitter.

motetus
Love and perfect beauty
Make me doubt
And dissemble
Perfectly,

As does true Desire, who inspires me
To love you,
Sweetheart,
With endless love;

And since I love so purely
I beg mercy
From you,
If only it might be granted me

Without diminishing your honour,
For I’d prefer this kind of languishing
And dying as well, should it please you,
To harming in any way
Your honour, which I so highly esteem,
Either by deed or thought.

tenor
Very bitter.

English: R Barton Palmer © 2015