Dame, vo pure biauté,
Qui toutes passe, a mon gré,
Et vo samblant,
Simple et plein d’umilité,
De douceur fine paré
En sousriant
Par un acueil attraiant,
M’ont au cuer en regardant
Si fort navré
Que jamais joie n’avré
Jusques a tant
Que vo grace qu’il atent
M’arez donné.

Plus dure [que un dyamant,
Ne que pierre d’aÿmant,
Est vo durté,
Dame, qui n’avez pité
De vostre amant,
Qu’ociés en desirant
Vostre amité.]

J’ay humblement enduré
L’amoureus mal et porté,
En attendant
Vostre bonne volenté,
Que j’ay en tous cas trouvé
Dure et poingnant,
Et quant tous en vo commant
Suis, je me merveil comment
Vostre bonté
M’a sa grace refusé,
Quant, en plorant,
Vous ay, et en souspirant,
Merci rouvé.

Plus dure [que un dyamant,
Ne que pierre d’aÿmant,
Est vo durté,
Dame, qui n’avez pité
De vostre amant,
Qu’ociés en desirant
Vostre amité.]

Helas, dame, conforté
Ne m’avez en ma grieté,
Ne tant ne quant.
Eins m’avez desconforté,
Si que tout desconfort hé.
Mais nompourquant
J’ameray d’ore en avant
Plus fort qu’onques mais, et quant
Mort et miné
M’ara vostre cruauté,
Qui m’est trop grant,
Lors sera bien apparant
Ma loyauté.

Plus dure que un dyamant,
[Ne que pierre d’aÿmant,
Est vo durté,
Dame, qui n’avez pité
De vostre amant,
Qu’ociés en desirant
Vostre amité.]

Guillaume de Machaut (c1300-1377)

My lady, your pure beauty,
Surpassing that of all others, so I think,
And your appearance,
Demure, full of reserve,
Graced with sweetness
As you smile
Such a beckoning welcome,
Have so grievously wounded me
Right to the heart as I gazed upon you
That never will joy be mine
Until that time
You will have bestowed upon me
That favour it is waiting for.

Harder than any diamond,
Or lodestone of any sort,
Is your hardness,
My lady, you who have no pity
On the man who loves you,
Whom you kill even as he desires
Your affection.

I have humbly endured
The ills of love, and borne them,
While waiting on
Your good intention,
Which I have in every case found
Harsh and painful,
And since I find myself completely
Under your command I wonder how
Your goodness
Has refused to bestow your favor on me
When, weeping,
And sighing, I have sought out
Mercy from you.

Harder than any diamond,
Or lodestone of any sort,
Is your hardness,
My lady, you who have no pity
On the man who loves you,
Whom you kill even as he desires
Your affection.

Alas, my lady, you have not
Comforted me in my misery,
Not ever, not in the least.
Instead, you’ve so distressed me
I hate distress of every kind.
But nevertheless
I’ll keep loving from this moment on
Much more deeply than ever, and when
Death and ruin
Have come to me from your cruelty,
Which is much too great,
Then will be made quite manifest
My faithfulness.

Harder than any diamond,
Or lodestone of any sort,
Is your hardness,
My lady, you who have no pity
On the man who loves you,
Whom you kill even as he desires
Your affection.

English: R Barton Palmer © 2016