Se la mia vita da l'aspro tormento

Se la mia vita da l'aspro tormento
si può tanto schermire, et dagli affanni,
ch'i' veggia per vertù de gli ultimi anni,
donna, de' be' vostr'occhi il lume spento,

e i cape' d'oro fin farsi d'argento,
et lassar le ghirlande e i verdi panni,
e 'l viso scolorir che ne' miei danni
a llamentar mi fa pauroso et lento:

pur mi darà tanta baldanza Amore
ch'i' vi discovrirò de' mei martiri
qua' sono stati gli anni, e i giorni et l'ore;

et se 'l tempo è contrario ai be' desiri,
non fia ch'almen non giunga al mio dolore
alcun soccorso di tardi sospiri.

If my life of bitter torment and of tears

If my life of bitter torment and of tears
could be derided more, and made more troubled,
that I might see, by virtue of your later years,
lady, the light quenched of your beautiful eyes,

and the golden hair spun fine as silver,
and the garland laid aside and the green clothes,
and the delicate face fade, that makes me
fearful and slow to go weeping:

then Love might grant me such confidence
that I'd reveal to you my sufferings
the years lived through, and the days and hours:

and if time is opposed to true desire,
it does not mean no food would nourish my grief:
I might draw some from slow sighs.

Vergognando talor ch'ancor si taccia,

donna, per me vostra bellezza in rima,

ricorro al tempo ch'i' vi vidi prima,

tal che null'altra fia mai che mi piaccia.

Ma trovo peso non da le mie braccia,

né ovra da polir colla mia lima:

però l'ingegno che sua forza extima

ne l'operatïon tutto s'agghiaccia.

Piú volte già per dir le labbra apersi,

poi rimase la voce in mezzo 'l pecto:

ma qual sòn poria mai salir tant'alto?

Piú volte incominciai di scriver versi:

ma la penna et la mano et l'intellecto

rimaser vinti nel primier assalto.

Ashamed sometimes that your beauty,

lady, is still silent in my verses,

I recall that time when I first saw it,

such that nothing else could ever please me.

But I find the weight too great for my shoulder,

a work not to be polished by my skill:

the more my wit exercises its force

the more its whole action grows cold.

Many times my lips have opened to speak,

but my voice is stilled in my chest:

who is he who could climb so high?

Many times I've begun to scribble verses:

but the pen, the hand, and the intellect

fell back defeated at their first attempt.

Solo et pensoso i più deserti campi

Solo et pensoso i più deserti campi

vo mesurando a passi tardi et lenti,

et gli occhi porto per fuggire intenti

ove vestigio human l’arena stampi.

Altro schermo non trovo che mi scampi

dal manifesto accorger de le genti,

perché negli atti d’alegrezza spenti

di fuor si legge com’io dentro avampi:

sì ch’io mi credo omai che monti et piagge

et fiumi et selve sappian di che tempre

sia la mia vita, ch’è celata altrui.

Ma pur sì aspre vie né sì selvagge

cercar non so ch’Amor non venga sempre

ragionando con meco, et io co·llui.

Alone and thoughtful, through the most desolate fields

Alone and thoughtful, through the most desolate fields,
I go measuring out slow, hesitant paces,

and keep my eyes intent on fleeing

any place where human footsteps mark the sand.

I find no other defence to protect me

from other people's open notice,

since in my aspect, whose joy is quenched,

they see from outside how I flame within.

So now I believe that mountains and river-banks

and rivers and forests know the quality

of my life, hidden from others.

Yet I find there is no path so wild or harsh

that love will not always come there

speaking with me, and I with him.

Io son sí stanco sotto 'l fascio antico

Io son sí stanco sotto 'l fascio antico

de le mie colpe et de l'usanza ria

ch'i' temo forte di mancar tra via,

et di cader in man del mio nemico.

Ben venne a dilivrarmi un grande amico

per somma et ineffabil cortesia;

poi volò fuor de la veduta mia,

sí ch'a mirarlo indarno m'affatico.

Ma la sua voce anchor qua giú rimbomba:

O voi che travagliate, ecco 'l camino;

venite a me, se 'l passo altri non serra.

Qual gratia, qual amore, o qual destino

mi darà penne in guisa di colomba,

ch'i' mi riposi, et levimi da terra?

 

I’m so wearied by the ancient burden

I’m so wearied by the ancient burden,

of these faults of mine, and my sinful ways,

that I’ve a deep fear of erring on the road,

and falling into my enemy’s hands.

A great friend came to rescue me,

with noble and ineffable courtesy:

then flew away, far from my sight,

so that I strive to see him, but in vain.

But his voice still echoes down here:

‘Come unto me: all you that labour

behold the path, if no one blocks the way.’

What grace, what love, O what destiny

will grant me the wings of a dove,

to lift from the earth, and be at rest?

Io canterei d'amor si novamente

Io canterei d'amor si novamente

ch'al duro fiancho il di mille sospiri
trarrei per forza, et mille alti desiri
raccenderei ne la gelata mente;

e 'l bel viso vedrei cangiar sovente,

et bagnar gli occhi, et piu pietosi giri
far, come suol chi de gli altrui martiri
et del suo error quando non val si pente;

et le rose vermiglie in fra le neve

mover da l'ora, et discovrir l'avorio
che fa di marmo chi da presso 'l guarda;

e tutto quel per che nel viver breve
non rincresco a me stesso, anzi mi glorio
d'esser servato a la stagion piu tarda.

I’d sing of Love in such a novel fashion

I’d sing of Love in such a novel fashion

that from her cruel side I would draw by force

a thousand sighs a day, kindling again

in her cold mind a thousand high desires;

I’d see her lovely face transform quite often

her eyes grow wet and more compassionate,

like one who feels regret, when it’s too late,

for causing someone’s suffering by mistake;

And I’d see scarlet roses in the snows,

tossed by the breeze, discover ivory

that turns to marble those who see it near them;

All this I’d do because I do not mind

my discontentment in this one short life,

but glory rather in my later fame.

S'amor non è, che dunque è quel ch'io sento?

S'amor non è, che dunque è quel ch'io sento?

Ma s'egli è amor, perdio, che cosa et quale?

Se bona, onde l'effecto aspro mortale?

Se ria, onde sí dolce ogni tormento?

S'a mia voglia ardo, onde 'l pianto e lamento?

S'a mal mio grado, il lamentar che vale?

O viva morte, o dilectoso male,

come puoi tanto in me, s'io no 'l consento?

Et s'io 'l consento, a gran torto mi doglio.

Fra sí contrari vènti in frale barca

mi trovo in alto mar senza governo,

sí lieve di saver, d'error sí carca

ch'i' medesmo non so quel ch'io mi voglio,

et tremo a mezza state, ardendo il verno .

Ist Liebe lauter nichts wie daß sie mich entzündet ?

Ist Liebe lauter nichts / wie daß sie mich entzündet?

Ist sie dann gleichwol was / wem ist ihr Thun bewust?

Ist sie auch gut und recht / wie bringt sie böse Lust?

Ist sie nicht gut / wie daß man Freud' auß ihr empfindet?

Lieb' ich ohn allen Zwang / wie kan ich schmertzen tragen?

Muß ich es thun / was hilfft's daß ich solch Trauren führ'?

Heb' ich es ungern an / wer dann befihlt es mir?

Thue ich es aber gern'/ um was hab' ich zu klagen?

Ich wancke wie das Graß so von den kühlen Winden

um Vesperzeit bald hin geneiget wird / bald her:

Ich walle wie ein Schiff das durch das wilde Meer

Von Wellen umbgejagt nicht kan zu Rande finden.

Ich weiß nicht was ich wil / ich wil nicht was ich weiß:

Im Sommer ist mir kalt / im Winter ist mir heiß

Translation : Martin OPITZ



Als dit geen liefde is, wat is het dan?

Als dit geen liefde is, wat is het dan?
En als het liefde is, is ze dan goed?
Kan liefde goed zijn als ze lijden doet?
En is ze slecht, geniet men daar dan van?

Wat klaag ik, als ik zelf beslissen kan?
Heeft klagen zin, als ik beminnen moet?
O dood die leven geeft, o leed zo zoet,
geniet ik van de dwang van een tiran?

Zo dool ik stuurloos rond op hoge zee,
bij wisselende wind. Mijn schip is zwaar
van twijfel en draagt weinig wijsheid mee,

zodat ik, niet meer wetend wat ik wil,
het gloeiend warm heb in de winter, maar
in hartje zomer van de koude ril.

Vertaling Ike CIALONA

Pace non trovo, et non ò da far guerra ;

Pace non trovo, et non ò da far guerra;

e temo, et spero; e ardo, e sono un ghiaccio

et volo sopra 'l cielo, et giaccio in terra; 

e nulla stringo, et tutto ‘l mondo abbraccio.

Tal m'à in pregion, che non m'apre né serra, 

né per suo mi riten né scioglie il laccio; 

e non m'ancide Amore, et non mi sferra , 

né mi vuol vivo, né mi trae d'impaccio .

Veggio senza occhi, e non ò lingua et grido; 

et bramo di perire , et chieggio aita ; 

e ò in odio me stesso, et amo altrui.

Pascomi di dolor, piangendo rido; 

egualmente mi spiace morte e vita: 

in questo stato son, donna, per voi.

I find no peace, and all my war is done;

I find no peace, and all my war is done;

I fear and hope; I burn and freeze like ice;

I fly above the wind, yet can I not arise;

And nought I have, and all the world I seize on;

That looseth nor locketh holdeth me in prison

And holdeth me not, yet can I 'scape nowise;

Nor letteth me live nor die at my device,

And yet of death it giveth none occasion.

Without eyen, I see; and without tongue I plain;

I desire to perish, and yet I ask health;

I love another, and thus I hate myself;

I feed me in sorrow, and laugh in all my pain;

Likewise displeaseth me both death and life;

And my delight is causer of this strife.

Thomas Wyatt


Ik heb geen vrede en ik kan niet strijden

Ik heb geen vrede en ik kan niet strijden,
ik hoop en vrees, ik gloei en ben van ijs.
ik zweef naar boven en ik lig te lijden
ik heb de wereld lief, die ik misprijs !

ik ben verlost en ik kan me niet bevrijden,
ik heb houvast en raak toch van de wijs,
ik voel me levend en gestorven beide:
ach, liefde is zowel hel als paradijs!

Ik zie verblind, ik schreeuw en kan niet praten,
ik haat mezelf en houd van iedereen,
ik roep om hulp en wil het leven laten,

ik huil van vreugde, ik lach terwijl ik ween,
leven en dood kwelt mij in gelijke mate:
en dit, o liefste, komt door jou alleen!

Vertaling: Frans VAN DOOREN

Una candida cerva sopra l’erba

verde m’apparve con duo corna d’oro,

fra due riviere all’ombra d’un alloro,

levando ’l sole a la stagione acerba.

Era sua vista si dolce superba

ch’ i’ lasciai per seguirla ogni lavoro,

come l’avaro che ’n cercar tesoro

con diletto l’affanno disacerba.

“Nessun mi tocchi,” al bel collo d’intorno

scritto avea di diamanti et di topazi.

“Libera farmi al mio Cesare parve.”

Et era ’l sol già vòlto al mezzo giorno,

Gli occhi miei stanchi di mirar, non sazi,

Quand‘ io caddi ne l’acqua et ella sparve.

A pure white hind appeared to me
with two gold horns, on green grass,
between two streams, in a laurel's shade,
at sunrise, in the unripe season.

Her aspect was so sweet and proud
I left all my labour to follow her:
as a miser, in search of treasure,
makes his toil lose its bitterness in delight.

'Touch me not,' in diamonds and topaz,
was written round about her lovely neck:
'it pleased my Lord to set me free.'

The sun had already mounted to mid-day,
my eyes were tired with gazing, but not sated,
when I fell into water, and she vanished.

In ’t groene gras zag ik een blanke hinde
met gouden hoorns, die dichtbij een rivier
’s ochtends het lommer zocht van een laurier
bij ’t zachte zuchten van de voorjaarswinden.

Omdat haar zoete gratie mij verblindde,
Vergat ik wat ik deed en volgde ’t dier,
net als een vrek die ’t uitzingt van plezier
zo gauw hij denkt ergens een schat te vinden.

“Raak mij niet aan”, stond om haar hals geschreven
in diamanten en topazen steen,
“want God wil mij in vrijheid laten leven!”

En reeds was ’t zonlicht over ’t zenit heen
en moest mijn oog zich moe gewonnen geven,
toen ik in ’t water viel en zij verdween.

Vertaling: Frans VAN DOOREN

Onde tolse Amor l'oro, et di qual vena,

per far due trecce bionde? e 'n quali spine

colse le rose, e 'n qual piaggia le brine

tenere et fresche, et die' lor polso et lena?

onde le perle, in ch'ei frange et affrena

dolci parole, honeste et pellegrine?

onde tante bellezze, et sí divine,

di quella fronte, piú che 'l ciel serena?

Da quali angeli mosse, et di qual spera,

quel celeste cantar che mi disface

sí che m'avanza omai da disfar poco?

Di qual sol nacque l'alma luce altera

di que' belli occhi ond'io ò guerra et pace,

che mi cuocono il cor in ghiaccio e 'n fuoco?

Where, and from what vein, did Love derive

the gold for her blonde hair? From what thorn

did he pluck the rose, from what fields the fresh

and tender frost, and give them force and power?

From where, those pearls to part and restrain

her sweet words in their chaste wandering?

And so much heavenly beauty on her brow,

more so than in the calmest skies?

From what angels, and with what hopes,

came that celestial singing that disarmed me,

so that I've never been anything but disarmed?

From what sun was that high kindly light born

of lovely eyes, from which came war and peace,

that seared my heart with ice and fire?

Oime il bel viso, oime il soave sguardo,
oime il leggiadro portamento altero;
oime il parlar ch'ogni aspro ingegno et fero
facevi humile, ed ogni huom vil gagliardo!

et oime il dolce riso, onde uscio 'l dardo
di che morte, altro bene omai non spero:
alma real, dignissima d'impero,
se non fossi fra noi scesa si tardo!

Per voi conven ch'io arda, e 'n voi respire,
ch'i' pur fui vostro; et se di voi son privo,
via men d'ogni sventura altra mi dole.

Di speranza m'empieste et di desire,
quand'io parti' dal sommo piacer vivo;
ma 'l vento ne portava le parole.

Ah me, the beautiful face, ah me, the gentle look,
ah me, the graceful noble manner of her:
ah me, the speech that made every harsh
and bitter mind humble, and every coward brave!

And, ah me, the sweet smile, from which the arrow
of death, the only good I hope for now, issued:
regal soul, worthiest to reign,
if only you had not descended so late among us!

It is fitting that I burn for you, and breathe for you,
since I am yours: and if I am parted from you,
I suffer less from all my other grief.

You filled me with hope and with desire,
when I departed, living, from the highest delight:
but the wind did not carry my words to you.

Ach mooi gelaat waarin de ogen straalden,

ach tred en houding, sierlijk en vol kracht!

Ach stem die harde harten heeft verzacht

En ’t beste in de mens naar boven haalde!

Ach lieve glimlach die mijn lot bepaalde

en mij een dodelijke wond toebracht!

Verheven ziel, bestemd tot grote macht

als u in beter tijden naar ons daalde!

U bent de vlam die mij heeft aangedreven,

u bent de adem die mij leven doet.

Nooit zal ik dit verlies te boven komen.

De laatste maal dat ik u zag, bij leven,

hebt u mijn hoop met tederheid gevoed.

De wind heeft onze woorden meegenomen.

Vertaling: Ike CIALONA

Gli occhi, di ch’io parlai sì caldamente ,

Gli occhi, di ch’io parlai sì caldamente,

Et le braccia, et le mani, e i piedi, e ‘l viso,

Che m’avean sì da me stresso diviso,

Et fatto singularda l’altra gente;

Le crespe chiome d’or puro lucente,

E ‘l lampeggiar de l’angelico riso,

Che solean fare in terra un paradisio,

Poca polvere son, che nulla sente.

Et io pur vivo, onde mi doglio et sdegno,

Rimaso senza ‘l lume ch’ amai tanto,

In gran fortuna, e ‘n disarmato legno.

Or sia qui fine al mio amoroso canto:

Secca è la vena de l’usato ingegno,

Et la cetera mia rivolta in piano

The eyes I spoke about so warmly,

The eyes I spoke about so warmly,

and the arms, the hands, the ankles, and the face

that left me so divided from myself,

and made me different from other men:

the crisp hair of pure shining gold

and the brightness of the angelic smile,

which used to make a paradise on earth,

are now a little dust, that feels no thing.

And I still live, which I grieve over and disdain,

left without the light I loved so much,

in great ill-fortune, in a shattered boat.

Now make an end of my loving songs:

the vein of my accustomed wit is dry,

and my lyre is turned again to weeping.



Die ogen …..

Die ogen zo vol vuur door mij beschreven,
die armen, handen, voeten en gezicht,
waardoor mijn hart soms zózeer werd ontwricht
dat ik met niemand meer kon samenleven,

die haren met een gouden glans doorweven,
die glimlachjes zo warm op mij gericht,
zijn nu vergaan tot stof, dat ergens ligt
en elk gevoel voorgoed heeft prijsgegeven.

En ik, ik leef, maar doodvermoeid en 't leven zat
en zonder 't reddend licht dat op mij wachtte
steeds als de storm mijn schip geteisterd had.

Verdwijn, o liefdeslied, uit mijn gedachten!
Want weg is het talent dat ik bezat:
ik schrijf geen verzen meer, maar jammerklachten!

Vertaling Frans VAN DOOREN

Valley so filled with all my laments,
river so often swollen with my tears,
wild beasts, wandering birds and fish,
reined in by these two green river-banks,

air warmed and calmed by my sighs,
sweet path that ends in such bitterness,
hill that pleased me, that now saddens,
where by habit Love still leads me:

I recognise familiar forms in you,
not, alas, in me, whose happy life,
has become the house of endless grief.

I saw my good from here: and with these steps
turn to see where she went naked to the sky,
leaving what's left of her beauty in the earth.

Translation by Anthony S. Kline

O dierbaar dal, vervuld van mijn gezucht,
o stille stroom, waar ik in tranen baadde,
o wild in 't woud, o vogels in de lucht,
o vissen tussen groenbeboste kaden,

o klare lucht, vol warmte en zoet gerucht,
o vredig pad, mij 't liefst van alle paden,
o heuvel, eens gezocht en nu ontvlucht,
waar liefde 't hart met blijdschap overlaadde.

gij zijt nog steeds hetzelfde als voorheen,
maar ik, ik niet helaas, want ach gij ziet
hoe zwaar ik lijd en hete tranen ween.

Bij u zag ik mijn liefste, en verdriet
voert mij nu weer naar hier, waar zij alleen
't omhulsel van haar schoonheid achterliet.

Vertaling Frans VAN DOOREN

Ite, rime dolenti, al duro sasso

Ite, rime dolenti, al duro sasso

che 'l mio caro thesoro in terra asconde,

ivi chiamate chi dal ciel risponde,

benché 'l mortal sia in loco oscuro et basso.

Ditele ch'i' son già di viver lasso,

del navigar per queste horribili onde;

ma ricogliendo le sue sparte fronde,

dietro le vo pur cosí passo passo,

sol di lei ragionando viva et morta,

anzi pur viva, et or fatta immortale,

a ciò che 'l mondo la conosca et ame.

Piacciale al mio passar esser accorta,

ch'è presso omai; siami a l'incontro, et quale

ella è nel cielo a sé mi tiri et chiame.

Go, grieving rimes of mine, to that hard stone

Go, grieving rimes of mine, to that hard stone
Whereunder lies my darling, lies my dear,
And cry to her to speak from heaven's sphere.
Her mortal part with grass is overgrown.

Tell her, I'm sick of living; that I'm blown
By winds of grief from the course I ought to steer,
That praise of her is all my purpose here
And all my business; that of her alone

Do I go telling, that how she lived and died
And lives again in immortality,
All men may know, and love my Laura's grace.

Oh, may she deign to stand at my bedside
When I come to die; and may she call to me
And draw me to her in the blessèd place!
Now You Try...