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75. Le Lay de desir en complainte Belle, tournez vers moy vos yeulx Et congnoissiez mon grief martire, Car pour riens ne vous ose dire Le mien desir; ainçois veil mieux En vous servant devenir vieux. Ce qui vous plaist me doit souffire, Et me souffist, sans contredire, Combien que mon cuer soit tieux Que pluseurs fois et en mains lieux De la bouche me convient rire Quant le cuer ou corps me souspire. Mais pas ne veult d’Amours li Dieux Que trop vous face l’ennuieux Pour vous monstrer a quoy je tire. Ains me fait doubter l’escondire De vostre gent corps gracieux. Si vous suppli que le regart De vos beaux doulz yeulx, que Dieu gart, Veilliez adrecier ceste part, Tant que bien clerement voiez Comment le mien cuer, main et tart, De vous amer esprent et art, Sans engin et sans mauvais art, Ja soit ce que moult est bleciez Et ferus d’un amoureux dart Qui tout parmi le fent et part. Mais penser ne peut autrepart. Tant est de loyaulté loyez Que de mourir suis en regart. Vie n’ay pas, au tiers n’a quart, Se de vos plaisans yeulx l’espart Doulcement vers moy n’envoyez Pour congnoistre le dezir,             Et plaisir             Qui gesir             Sans joir Me fait tousdiz, et bruir Dedens l’amoureuse flame Ou je ne fais que languir             Et gemir.             Mais couvrir             Sans gehir Me convient sans descouvrir Le mal qui mon cuer entame. Et vous ne voulez oir             Ne veir,             Consentir             Ne assentir Entendre ne retenir Mon dezir, tresdoulce dame. Se ainsi me fault mourir             Et fenir             Pour servir             Sans merir, Je seray d’amours martir, Et Dieux ait mercy de l’ame.             Helas, je fais             En tous mes fais             Chançons et lays             Et virelais Seulement pour vous adviser.             Mes diz sont lais             Car homs suis lais,             Mais je les trais             Et les attrais Du plus parfont de mon penser             Pour vous monstrer,             Soit par chanter             Ou par rimer,             Que sans fausser, De vous sui fins amoureux vrais,             Et vueil amer             Et bien celer             Sans plus rouver             Ne demander Fors que mon cuer soit mis en paix. Certes, mon desir ne me laisse Avoir paix, santé, ne repos. S’il ne fust, je fusse bien aise, Mais il me deront tous de cops. Il se muce dedens mes os, Plus embrasé q’une fournaise. Toudiz le treuve sur mon dos, Et me soit bel ou me desplaise. Et quant dezir est grant et gros, Et il convient que je m’en taise, De tant ay je plus de mesaise Et de tourment, bien dire l’os, Qu’a paine dure les galos Un fort cheval qui trop le faise, Et le mien cuer pas ne delaise Pour trop endurer son propos. Et pour ce, ma souveraine, Vous devez bien en ma paine Piteusement regarder,             Et penser, Que quant je n’ose parler Du mal qui a mort me maine, Du cuer me tramble la vaine, Et se je dois reschafer             Mon trambler, Couvrir me faut pour suer D’autre chouse que de laine. Car dezir ad ce me maine, Qui de chault me fait bruler             Et grailer Quant je dois aterminer. Mon mal vault pis que tiersaine, A tout bien considerer Le fort dezir que j’endure Dont l’ardure est si dure, Nuit et jour, tousdiz me dure, Sans aucun delay avoir, Ne rien ne m’y puet valoir Si non Amour et Nature Et vous, doulce creature, Qui le pouoir et savoir Avez bien, d’apercevoir En quel lieu j’ay l’enclaure Dont je me dueil main et soir. Car certes, a dire voir, Vo beauté fist la pointure Qui si fort me fait douloir. Pas ne m’avez point de retraite, Car cilz poins n’yert jamais retrais. Desir me point, qui tousdiz traite Que plus parfont soit mon cuer trais De vous amer d’amour parfaite, Dont je seray martir parfais, Se Pitié, qui telz poins afaite, Ne se met sur moy tout a fais. Pour ce je tiens ma fin pour faite; En vous dezirant la parfais Sans contenance contrefaite, Ne l’amant pas ne contrefais. Car du desir qui me deshaite N’ay plus de bien que beaux souhais, Et non pour quant, tousdiz agaite Que mon maintien soit liez et gais. Est ce donc esbatement D’amer telement Et si ardanment Qu’amer est tourment Sans alegement? Le tenez vous a solas, Par Saint Nicolas, Hors mis tous debas? Je ne li tien pas. Le beuf, pas a pas, Ce dit l’en, le lievre prent. Ainsi faitement, Se Dezir en prent Mon destrivement, Tousdiz entre jeux et gas Seront my esbas Du tout mis au bas. Lors diray «Elas, Amours, trahy m’as.» Veez la bel revengement. Maistre Guillaume de Machaut Dit bien que revengier n’y vault. Envers Dezir rendre se faut. Mort est qui oeuvre de rigour. Et Guillaume de Saint Amour Montre comment le Dieu d’Amour Le cuer des amoureux assault Par un dezir cuisant et chault, Si chault que de riens ne leur chault Fors que de bien amer toujour. Cuer desireux n’a nul sejour. Pour ce, ma dame de valour, Ne me trovez pas en deffaut Se maniere souvent me fault. Car le mien dezir est mout hault, Et a besoing de grant doulçour, Sans vouloir mal ne deshonnour. Mais le reffus me fait paour Tant que tout le cuer me tressault Et li corps de parler m’est chault. Et quant le hardement y fault, Adont est double ma doulour. Et li bons maistres qui parfist La fin du Romant de la Rose Il m’est advis qu’il ait escript, Je ne sçay en texte ou en glose, Que dezir est moult ardant chose, Et a paine se refroidit. Et je voy bien qu’il a voir dit Par le mien, qui pas ne repose, Ne d’ardoir ne prent nul respit. C’est un amoureux esperit Qui en mon cuer a fait sa fosse, Et paour m’a la bouche close Pour ce que nul mot n’en yssit. Ainsy dezir mon cuer noircit, Qui mon destruisement propose. Ne descouvrir pas ne vous ose, Dame, pour quoy mon cuer languist. Ne doy je bien estre joyeux Quant chascun jour mon mal empire? Il n’a usurier en l’empire Qui soit d’avoir si convoiteux Comme je sui tresangoisseux De vous ma pensee descripre. Mais a tel mal ne me vault mire, Tant par soit sage ne soucieux, Se vo cuer n’est du mien piteux. Autre confort n’y sçay eslire. Ce fait dezir, qui me martire. Belle dont je sui envieux, Entendez mon lay desireux, Et voyez qu’il me fait deffrire, Et pour mieulx appercevoir l’ire Dont je sui merancolieux, Belle, tournez vers moy vos yeulx.

75. The Lai of desire in complaint Fair lady, turn your eyes towards me And recognize my grievous suffering, For I do not dare at all to tell you Of my desire; instead I prefer To grow old in serving you. What pleases you should suffice for me, And it does suffice, without denial, However much my heart is such That oftentimes and in many places I am compelled to laugh with my mouth When the heart in my body sighs. But the God of Love does not wish That I be too annoying to you In order to show you what I’m aiming at. Instead he makes me fear refusal From your noble gracious self. Thus I beseech you that you please Turn the gaze of your fair sweet eyes, Which God preserve, in this direction, In such a way that you clearly see How my heart, both early and late, Takes fire and burns from loving you, Without trickery or evil design, Even though it is greatly hurt And struck with a dart of love That splits and divides it down the middle. But it cannot think otherwise. To loyalty it is so tightly bound That I am in fear of dying. I have no life, not even a fraction, If the brilliance of your charming eyes You do not gently send my way In order to know the desire,             And the pleasure             Which makes me lie down             Without joy Constantly, and makes me burn Within the flame of love Where I can only languish             And moan.             But I must hide             Without declaring And without revealing The pain that consumes my heart. And you don’t want to hear             Or see,             To consent             Or agree To listen to or to remember My desire, most gentle lady. If thus I must die             And end             For serving             Without deserving it, I will be a martyr of love, And may God have mercy on my soul.             Alas, I make             In all my works             Songs and lais             And virelais Solely in order to address you.             My poems are rough             For I am a layman,             But I draw them forth             And I recite them From the deepest part of my thought             In order to show you,             Either by singing             Or by rhyming,             That without lying, I am your true and noble lover,             And I wish to love             And keep it secret             Without asking more             Or requesting Except that my heart be set at peace. Truly, my desire does not let me Have peace, health, or repose. If it didn’t exist, I would be at ease, But it consumes me constantly. It hides itself within my bones, Blazing hotter than any flame. I constantly find it upon my back, And whether I like it or not. And when desire is great and huge, And I am forced to remain silent, Then I have so much more distress And torment, I dare well say, Than he who whips too much Endures the gallops of a horse, And my heart does not desist In order to better endure its condition. And for this reason, my sovereign lady, You ought well upon my pain To look with pity,             And to think, That when I do not dare to speak Of the pain that leads me to my death, The vein of my heart is trembling, And if I am to warm up             My shivering, I must cover myself in order to sweat With something other than wool. For desire leads me to this, That makes me burn with heat             And fry When I ought to cease. My pain is worse than a fever, When all is taken into account. The strong desire that I endure Of which the burning is so strong Continues constantly, night and day, Without having any respite, Nor can anything avail me If not Love and Nature And you, gentle creature, Who the power and knowledge Certainly have, to recognize In what place I have the hardship Of which I grieve morning and evening. For certainly, to tell the truth, Your beauty made the wound Which makes me sorrow so greatly. You have left me absolutely no retreat, For this point will never be withdrawn. Desire pricks me, which constantly incites My heart to be drawn to love you More deeply, with a perfect love, Of which I will end up a martyr, If Pity, which treats such wounds, Doesn’t turn my way immediately. Thus I consider my end to be decided; I bring it about in desiring you Without counterfeit appearance, Nor do I pretend to be a lover. For of the desire that afflicts me My only reward is pretty wishes, And nonetheless, I am always on guard That my behavior be happy and gay. Is this then enjoyable To love this way And so ardently That love is a torment Without relief? Do you think it a pleasure, By Saint Nicholas, Beyond all debate? I don’t think it so. The cow, step by step, They say, overtakes the hare. In that same way, If Desire undertakes A struggle with me, Always between games and jests Will my pleasures Be completely brought low. Then will I say, “Alas, Love, you have betrayed me.” See its sweet revenge. Master Guillaume de Machaut Says well that vengeance isn’t worth it. One must surrender to Desire. He is dead who struggles without bending. And Guillaume de Saint Amour Shows how the God of Love Assails the hearts of lovers With a hot and burning desire, So hot that nothing matters to them Except to love well forever. A desirous heart has no relief. For that reason, my worthy lady, Do not find me at fault If my manners are often lacking. For my desire is very great, And it needs great gentleness, Without wishing pain or dishonor. But refusal makes me afraid So greatly that my whole heart trembles And my body is eager to speak. And when courage is lacking, Then my sorrow is doubled. And the good master who brought to an end The Romance of the Rose, It seems to me that he wrote, I don’t know whether in text or gloss, That desire is a very burning thing, And that it hardly ever cools down. And I see well that he told the truth From my own, which does not rest, Nor does it take any respite from burning. It is a loving spirit That has buried itself within my heart, And fear has closed my mouth So that no word escapes. Thus does desire blacken my heart, Which is planning my destruction. And I do not dare to reveal to you, Lady, why my heart languishes. And should I really be joyous When every day my pain grows worse? There is no usurer in the empire Who is as covetous to possess As I am anxious to describe To you my thought. But for such a pain no doctor avails, However wise or caring he is, If your heart has no pity on mine. I cannot choose any other comfort. Desire does this, which makes me suffer. Beautiful lady whom I desire, Listen to my lai of desire, And see that it makes me burn, And to better perceive the sorrow Of which I am melancholy, Fair lady, turn your eyes towards me.

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