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I |
1 |
He cannot sing who makes no tune, |
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And he cannot write songs who makes no words, |
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And does not know how a rhyme works |
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If he does not understand the matter; |
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5 |
But my own song begins like this: |
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The more you hear it, the better it becomes. |
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II |
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Let no one be amazed at me |
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If I love what will never see me, |
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For I enjoy none other |
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10 |
But her whom I have never seen, |
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And I have never been so happy for any joy, |
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And I do not know what good I shall get out of it. |
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III |
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A stroke of joy strikes and kills me, |
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As does a prick of love which ravages |
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15 |
My flesh, and makes me grow thin; |
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And never have I been so stricken |
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Or weakened by any blow, |
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For it is not right, and does not happen. |
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III |
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I have never fallen asleep so soundly |
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20 |
That my spirit was not soon there, |
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Nor have I felt so much grief here |
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That I was not there right away; |
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But when I awake in the morning |
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All my pleasure escapes me. |
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IV |
25 |
I know indeed that I have never had her, |
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Nor will she ever have me, |
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Nor will she consider me her lover, |
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Nor will she promise herself to me; |
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She never told me the truth or lied, |
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30 |
And I do not know if she ever will. |
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VI |
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The song is good; I have not failed in it, |
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And everything that is in it fits; |
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And let whoever learns it from me |
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Beware of taking it apart and breaking it up; |
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35 |
And I would like Lord Bertrand in Quercy |
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And the Count in Toulouse to hear it. |
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VII |
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The song is good, and there they will do |
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Something that people will sing about. |
