Elégie III

Quand vous lirez, ô Dames Lionnoises,

Ces miens escrits pleins d'amoureuses noises,

Quand mes regrets, ennuis, despits et larmes

M'orrez chanter en pitoyables carmes,

Ne veuillez pas condamner ma simplesse,

Et jeune erreur de ma folle jeunesse,

Si c'est erreur: mais qui dessous les Cieus

Se peut vanter de n'estre vicieus?

L'un n'est content de sa sorte de vie,

Et tousjours porte à ses voisins envie:

L'un, forcenant de voir la paix en terre,

Par tous moyens tache y mettre la guerre

L'autre, croyant povreté estre vice,

A autre Dieu qu'or ne fait sacrifice:

L'autre sa foy parjure il emploira

A decevoir quelcun qui le croira:

L'un en mentant de sa langue lezarde,

Mile brocars sur l'un et l'autre darde:

Je ne suis point sous ces planettes née,

Qui m'ussent pù tant faire infortunée.

Onques ne fut mon oeil marri, de voir

Chez mon voisin mieus que chez moy pleuvoir.

Onq ne mis noise ou discord entre amis:

A faire gain jamais ne me soumis.

Mentir, tromper, et abuser autrui,

Tant m'a desplu, que mesdire de lui.

Mais si en moy rien y ha d'imparfait,

Qu'on blame Amour: c'est lui seul qui l'a fait,

Sur mon verd aage en ses laqs il me prit,

Lors qu'exerçois mon corps et mon esprit

En mile et mile euvres ingenieuses,

Qu'en peu de temps me rendit ennuieuses.

Pour bien savoir avecque l'esguille peindre

J'eusse entrepris la renommée esteindre

De celle là, qui, plus docte que sage,

Avec Pallas comparoit son ouvrage.

Qui m'ust vù lors en armes fiere aller,

Porter la lance et bois faire voler,

Le devoir faire en l'estour furieus,

Piquer, volter le cheval glorieus,

Pour Bradamante, ou la haute Marphise,

Seur de Roger, il m'ust, possible, prise.

Mais quoy? Amour ne peut longuement voir

Mon coeur n'aymant que Mars et le savoir:

Et me voulant donner autre souci,

En souriant, il me disoit ainsi:

`Tu penses donq, ô Lionnoise Dame,

Pouvoir fuir par ce moyen ma flamme:

Mais non feras; j'ay subjugué les Dieus

Es bas Enfers, en la Mer et es Cieus,

Et penses tu que n'aye tel pouvoir

Sur les humeins, de leur faire savoir

Qu'il n'y ha rien qui de ma main eschape?

Plus fort se pense et plus tot je le frape.

De me blamer quelque fois tu n'as honte,

En te fiant en Mars, dont tu fais conte:

Mais meintenant, voy si pour persister

En le suivant me pourras resister.'

Ainsi parloit, et tout eschaufé d'ire

Hors de sa trousse une sagette il tire,

Et decochant de son extreme force,

Droit la tira contre ma tendre escorce:

Foible harnois, pour bien couvrir le coeur

Contre l'Archer qui tousjours est vainqueur.

La bresche faite, entre Amour en la place,

Dont le repos premierement il chasse:

Et de travail qui me donne sans cesse,

Boire, manger, et dormir ne me laisse.

Il ne me chaut de soleil ne d'ombrage:

Je n'ay qu'Amour et feu en mon courage,

Qui me desguise, et fait autre paroitre,

Tant que ne peu moymesme me connoitre.

Je n'avois vu encore seize hivers,

Lors que j'entray en ces ennuis divers;

Et jà voici le treizième esté

Que mon coeur fut par amour arresté.

Le tems met fin aus hautes Pyramides,

Le tems met fin aus fonteines humides;

Il ne pardonne aus braves Colisées,

Il met à fiu les viles plus prisées,

Finir aussi il ha acoutumé

Le feu d'Amour tant soit-il allumé:

Mais, las! en moy il semble qu'il augmente

Avec le tems, et que plus me tourmente.

Paris ayma CEnone ardamment,

Mais son amour ne dura longuement,

Medée fut aymée de Jason,

Qui tot apres la mit hors sa maison.

Si meritoient-elles estre estimées,

Et pour aymer leurs amis, estre aymées.

S'estant aymé on peut Amour laisser,

N'est-il raison, ne l'estant, se lasser?

N'est-il raison te prier de permettre,

Amour, que puisse à mes tourmens fin mettre?

Ne permets point que de Mort face espreuve,

Et plus que toy pitoyable la treuve:

Mais si tu veus que j'ayme jusqu'au bout,

Fay que celui que j'estime mon tout,

Qui seul me peut faire plorer et rire,

Et pour lequel si souvent je soupire,

Sente en ses os, en son sang, en son ame,

Ou plus ardente, ou bien egale flame.

Alors ton faix plus aisé me sera,

Quand avec moy quelcun le portera.

From Complete Poems of Louise Labé (University of Chicago Press, 2006)

ELEGY 3

Oh, women of Lyon, whenever you read

these writings of mine, so full of love and need—

all the worries, grudges, tears, sobs and regret

that the piteous music of these songs has set—

please don’t condemn me for simplicity

because of my youthful weakness. Yes, I see

that I'm in error, but who, under the skies,

can praise herself for having not one vice?

One is unhappy with her lot in life,

and watches her neighbors with envy like a knife;

another, striving to see peace come on earth,

tries so hard he starts wars for all he’s worth;

another, making a sin of poverty,

sacrifices only to the God of money;

another, perjuring her own Faith, will deceive

all who trust her enough to want to believe;

another, with a lizard-like poisoned tongue,

throws a thousand lying darts, and many are stung.

I wasn’t born under those planets at all—

the ones that could have forced my luck to fall.

It never pained my eyes to have to see

better rain fall on my neighbor than on me.

I have not set discord among my friends,

or debased myself to further my own ends.

To lie, to trick, or to abuse another,

or to speak badly of anyone, makes me shudder.

So, if there’s anything imperfect in my life,

blame Love. He is the cause of all my strife.

In my green youth he got a hold of me,

while I was exercising both my soul and body

in a hundred thousand ingenious feats of skill

which, in no time at all, he rendered dull.

Wanting to paint fine scenes in my sewing frame,

I had challenged myself to extinguish the great fame

of she who—surely more studious than wise—

set her work against what Pallas had devised.

And you should have seen me in armor, riding high,

gripping my lance, letting my arrows fly!

I kept my head in the fury of the fight,

spurring my glorious wheeling horse. You might

have compared me to great Bradamante with ease,

or to Roger’s sister, the renowned Morphise.

But what of it? Love couldn’t lend my heart

to Mars and study for long; soon He would start

to lead me to other concerns. At first, for a while,

he only watched me. But then he remarked, with His smile,

“Oh woman of Lyon , do you believe

that my quick flames will grant you a reprieve?

No they will not! I have subdued the Gods

in Hell below, in the sea, and in the clouds!

Then don’t you think I also can command

you humans, making sure you understand

my hand is so strong that no-one can escape?

Those who think they’re strongest are the first I take!

And you have dared to defy me without shame,

putting your faith in Mars, spreading his name!

Now, see if you have enough strength to persist

in following him—see if you can resist!”

So saying, now all red and hot with anger,

he pulled out an arrow with a fearsome clangor.

He loosed it with a strength that will never yield,

shooting it straight against my tender shield—

too feeble a harness to defend my heart

against that all-vanquishing Archer’s solemn dart.

Now the wound is cut. When Love entered in my breast,

the first thing that He drove away was rest.

He brings me cares that will never be complete;

He will not let me drink, or sleep, or eat.

I can't feel sun, and I can't feel the shade.

Only fire and love fill me. And they don't fade;

they hide me. Now I have become so strange

I hardly remember myself how I have changed.

I was not even sixteen winters old

when all these cares took me into their hold,

and now it has been thirteen summers more

since Love first froze my heart to its young core.

The Pyramids were defeated, at last, by Time;

moist fountains will be dried, at last, by Time.

Time will not pardon the brave Coliseum;

it will topple all cities that hold our esteem;

Time is accustomed even to quenching the fire

of Love, no matter how hot the desire.

But, alas, in me the flame grows still more fervent

with Time, and brings on worse and worse torment!

Though Paris ’ desire for Oeone was strong,

his love didn’t last for very long;

Medea was loved by Jason, so we hear,

but soon enough he threw her out the door.

Those women deserved the love that they had earned,

and, loving, they were loved back in their turn.

If those who are loved know how to leave love alone,

shouldn’t we, who are not loved, leave it alone?

So shouldn’t I pray to you now, Love, to cease

this torture, and to let me rest in peace?

Don’t make me look Death in the face to prove

that Death is more compassionate than Love!

If You really want me to love to the very end,

make he whom I love most, my all, my friend,

the only one who can bring me tears or laughter,

for whom I have sighed so often, follow after:

let him feel, in his blood, his bones, and in his soul,

an equal—or a hotter—desire boil.

Then Your burdens won't weigh as heavily on me,

since someone who shares them will keep me company.

From Complete Poems of Louise Labé (University of Chicago Press, 2006)