_Idyll By Marcabrun._

A la fontana del vergier, At the fountain of the orchard On l’ erb’ es vertz jostal gravier, Where the grass is green near the gravel A l’ ombra d’ un fust domesgier, In the shade of a tree indigenous En aizement de blancas flors In the beauty of white flowers E de novel chant costumier, And of new song familiar Trobei sola ses companhier I found alone without companion Cela que no volc mon solatz. Her who not relished my conversation.

So fon donzel’ ab son cor bel, This was a girl with her body beautiful Filha d’un senhor de castel; The daughter of one lord of a castle; E quant eu cugei que l’ auzel And when I thought that the birds Li fesson joi e la verdors, Her made (gave) joy and the greenery E pel dous termini novel, And (because of) the sweet season new E que entendes mon favel, And that she would listen (to) my address Tost li fon sos afors camjatz. Soon (the) were her manners changed.

Dels olhs ploret josta la fon From her eyes she cried by the fountain E del cor sospiret preon. And from the heart she sighed deeply. ‘Jhesus,’ dis ela, ‘reis del mon, ‘Jesus,’ said she, ‘king of the world, Per vos mi creis ma grans dolors, Through you me grows my great grief Quar vostra anta mi cofon, For your disgrace me injures, Quar li melhor de tot est mon For the best of all this world Vos van servir, mas a vos platz. You go to serve, but to you it pleases.

Ab vos s’en vai lo meus amics, With you (himself) away goes (the) my friend Lo bels el gens el pros el rics, The beautiful and the gentle and the brave and the worthy Sai m’en reman lo grans destrics, Here to me therefrom remains the great grief Lo deziriers soven el plors. The longing often and the tear. Ai! mala fos reis Lozoics Alas! evil be (befal) king Louis. Que fai los mans e los prezics Who makes the commands and the preachings, Per quel dols m’es el cor intratz.’ Through which the pain to me is into the heart entered.’

Quant eu l’auzi desconortar, When I her heard lament Ves leis vengui jostal riu clar. To her I came near the brook clear. ‘Bela,’ fi m’eu, ‘per trop plorar ‘Beautiful one,’ said (myself) I, ‘by too much crying Afola cara e colors: Degenerates face and colour: E no vos qual dezesperar, And not you it beseems to despair, Que cel que fai lo bosc folhar For he who makes the bush bring forth leaves Vos pot donar de joi assatz.’ You can give of joys enough.’

‘Senher,’ dis ela, ‘ben o cre, ‘Sir,’ said she, ‘well this I believe Que Deus aja de mi merce That God may have of me mercy En l’ autre segle per jasse, In the other world for ever Quon assatz d’ autres peccadors; As enough of other sinners; Mas sai mi tol aquela re But here me he takes that thing Don jois mi crec; mas pauc mi te Of which joy me grew; but little me he holds worth Que trop s’es de mi alonhatz. As too (far) (himself) he is from me gone.