SPRING
_____________________

IDYLL I

WHEN Zephyr, Springtime's gentle messenger, arrives
in our sleepy fields, breathing everything awake,
when the woodland glitters with leaflet-filtered light
and green returns along the plain,
you are in the lists, Adolphe, given to danger
of death, and stolen away by the new season...
How will she live without you, poor stricken Irene?
So, please, keep your distance, Zephyr,
take pity on Irene, whose heart will be broken;
and you stop too, you beautiful flowers,
flaunting in our faces your glorious colours.
While, like shells, your buds crack open,
warmed by the soft breath of Zephyrs,
my soul can only spend itself in sighs!

Whose was the brutal hand that fashioned innocent
metal into the first murderous implement
and made an art of cruelty?
Monster! Were they never touched by humanity?
Did they never revel in love's sweet dalliance?
Some blind compulsion must have twisted their thinking,
to relish the call to arms and shun indulgence,
to desert the beloved's tender whisperings
for an enemy's implacable bellowings!
Adolphe, dear, for pity's sake, abandon combat!
Does it truly, in the end, complete your needs?
Love, too, has its battles, banners and accolades;
a suitor acts with genius, daring, and wit.
Like armies, lovers are beset by sneak attacks;
they make advances and retreats,
hail victories, suffer defeats,
enjoy triumphs, endure violence, conclude pacts.
Love's violence, though, is soon done,
its peace is the soul's elixir,
and its triumphs, always hard-won,
are as dear to the vanquished as to the victor.
Even its sorrows …. Oh God, is that the trumpet
sounding the summons to battle?
Why do you have to desert me, ingrate?
I am not robbing you of your laurels.
Behold your Irene, and then run off to glory.
But to lengthen my days make sure that yours are safe,
and on the wings of victory
fly home, to keep your faith with love.
Come what may, keen to the pains of the one you've spurned,
wherever you may go, wherever bide,
say, oh say to yourself some times,
Is my Irene still in the world?

NOTICE

THE following idylls are addressed to Eleonore, which is as it should be. Charged with the portrayal of feelings of love, my pen can write no other name, just as my heart can hold no other object.

Obliged to keep faith with the model in front of me, I had to include language, imagery and ideas which would never have occurred to me without Metastasio. I toned them down significantly—in Advice, Jealousy and Return among others—but could not suppress them altogether.

The translator, of course, takes their liberties; but
this one breaches somewhat the limits I have set,

Piron might have written. Finally, as I said, I have reframed everything. The originals, at times addressed to Nike, at others to Chloris, did not at all match my conception of a collection, unified through links and progressions, fit for a volume of love poetry.

TIMIDLY IN LOVE
_____________________

IDYLL II

HEART, what do you want of me? What is the matter?
I have never known you in such a state before.
You stop, only to rap faster:
I need to know this hectic perplexity's cause.
One moment you open up, the next you close down;
my breast feels like bursting most of the time.
Is it daring or dread? Is it pain or delight?
How can I be the place where fire is fused with ice
and two opposing forces are disclosed in one?
I can guess what it is. I remember the day
when, unsuspecting of Love's total mastery,
my eyes for the first time lighted on Eleonore,
sublime as Venus, fresh as waking Aurora...
and that is the cause of your present distemper?
Why should you bemoan falling for such a creature?
Bless, rather, a hundred times so lovely a snare;
you are lucky it caught you, let go of your fear
—but be sure that my secret is never laid bare.

Must I, though, forever languish and be silent?
Isn't it always the bold whom love champions?
Eleonore will hear of it. I want her
to know every detail of my torture.
Yes, I myself shall dare to speak of it—
I am in love with you, assert.
My trespass will be manifest;
we unfortunates all have the right of protest.
I shall tell her … But what if her pride is slighted
and my supplication repulsed?
What if for ever I am banished from her sight?
Alas! I pause, I vacillate;
I want and don't want to betray my burning breast.

But you, enviable Zephyr, as your own breath
rouses the one who is the cause of this slow death,
tell her how I feel about her;
how on your sigh is borne a lover's helpless truth.
But never speak the name I bear.

And you, bright stream, when your course finds its way
to my unwitting tormentor,
be honest intercessor of a love so shy.
As you meander by, whisper to her
how my tears tarnish your surface's clarity.
But never speak the name I bear.

DEFENSE
_____________________

IDYLL III

TO ELEONORE

NO, I'm sorry, I have no idea,
Eleonore, why you are angry with me.
What have I done? What did your Auguste say?
That he loves you, that you are his idol.
Is that in your eyes an unpardonable crime
for which I must roundly be held accountable?
If loving you makes me a criminal
I'd have to never see you to stay free of blame.
Yes, Eleonore, find one mortal who is able,
without sighing, to hear your voice
or, without swooning, see your face,
and I shall myself call down your stern reprisal.

Why is it that, of all your admirers,
each of whom commit the same wrong,
I am the sole recipient of your harangue?
Must I atone for the crimes of your siren eyes?
My ardent pleas, are they what displease you?
Be careful, at least, you don't lose your looks!
This crossness is more noxious than you know—
your pretty face shows its effects.

You don't believe me, do you? You seem dubious.
Peer into the looking-glass of these clear waters.
Am I telling lies? Or am I speaking truly?
This frowning brow, this lowering, fierce mien
that consigns smiles to extinction
is slowly tarnishing the sheen of your beauty.

Chastise me so: if saying I love you,
if calling you my idol lands as an insult,
Eleonore, then simply insult me too,
and I'll forgive you that instant.

But oh joy! I see a smile light Eleonore's face!
I am beside myself for the sake of that smile.
Look, now, at your image a while,
the sweetness of my inamorata's features,
and consider the effect of love on those looks.
A smiling face always beguiles the beholder;
a loving face touches, reaches something deeper.
So, Eleonore, your turn, let love awake.
Love, and look again in this river-glass.
Your smile will be all the sweeter,
and you will see the light of so much loveliness,
you'll never dare indulge that furious temper.

ADVICE
_____________________

IDYLL IV

LISTEN, Tircis, to the advice of a good friend,
take heed, and trust in my sincerity.
Who dared, my dear Tyrcis, to recommend
such excessive temerity?
Everything should daunt the novice lover.
Don't even let your eyes meet those of Eleonore
—their collision could propel you into her snare.
You have no idea what she can do,
how in her features, in her air,
a strange glamour is working, that will do for you.
You can't yet see where her disdain will lead,
nor the reach of that unflinching power,
but I know it, I, who, once having stayed
a moment to gaze at her, from that day
paid with unremitting sighs and quenchless hunger.
These forests know it too, and the valleys, that chimed
so many times to my imploring of her name.
To put trust in those wily caresses
performed simply to beguile you,
in those sly, listless, disinterested gazes
that beauty now and then will deign to shy at you,
in those so-sweet words, so meekly spoken,
that promise everything and deliver nothing,²
is to suppose she has a heart.
And I believed that too—I was an idiot!
Eleonore, impervious and wayward,
wants only to see her charms ascendant,
basks in the attendance of her swarms of gallants.
One moment she encourages, the next dismays
—but never quite enough to deter her poor slaves.
You've never felt her sorcery, her subtleties,
surpassing even Armid or Venus.
She lures, she refuses, she flatters, she offends.

Yes, you could dare to become her lover,
but don't imagine your torments
would, for once and all, be over.

Make her your only reason for living
and you surrender any idea of peace;
but try to sever the chains of your enslaving
and of your troubles death will be the least.

DREAM
_____________________

IDYLL V

SHE who has stolen my whole soul,
comes to me sometimes at night in wonderful dreams
to console with a benevolent sham
and lighten the load of all my troubles.
God of Cythera, be just now:
either make this illusion so
or let sleep hold me in the happiest fable.
Eleonore, before dawn had set the fields aglow,
in a dream I found myself seated beside you
on the bank of an isolated stream.
I was dreaming, but in that chimerical time
everything that arrested my senses rang true.
Sounds penetrated with a solid clarity—
the waves collapsing in plashes over the stones,
thin leaves tinkling in the wind's soft flow,
and the chattering of birds scattered in the trees.
That vibrant light in your eyes seemed to throw
its brightness on everything around me
and my heart, so unwontedly loud in its throes,
announced at once your presence and my ecstasy.
One thing only made its reality suspect:
why were you being so meek, so acquiescent?
That was my clue this heaven was not all it seemed.

God, such electrifying words fell on my ears!
So many endearments! Such tender confessions!
No words are fit to tell the truth of such wonders.
When your eyes made themselves love's instruments,
Eleonore, oh how beautiful you were!
If only a faithful mirror
could give you a glimpse of that ardent radiance
cruelty would not be in your power.
What did I think, what did I say in those moments?
How do you fix a fantasy?
What words could ever signify
the transports of joy, the absolute ravishment?
I let my idolatrous lips
set kisses all over your hands
and alabaster fingertips,
—all your charms, to my captivated glance,
seemed a wanton god's to worship.
You blushed: love was stirring in the depths of your soul…
when an uproar erupted in a nearby grove.
I turned and, peering through the quaking foliage,
saw Philene, my rival, gripped in a jealous rage,
hell-bent on settling the score.
Shock and outrage leapt in me. I woke with a jolt
as both dream and happiness, like a thread of light
gossamer lifting away, were lost for ever.
But my yearning and my trouble
will not wither as the deep night's shadows dwindle.
In the world of sleep, a beguiling fallacy
put me within reach of tangible bliss,
but that vision, taunting madly
in my waking hours, brings nothing but bitterness.

A NOTE ON 'DREAM'
_____________________

IDYLL V

METASTASIO'S cantata, Il Sogno, a feeble version of which you have just read, appears to be an imitation of Anacreon's Ode XII To a Swallow. Notwithstanding the venerability of the original author, we have to acknowledge that Metastasio's version is far superior in the charm of its imagery, the fineness of its details, and the delicacy of its sentiments. Here is a rough translation:

Swallow, whose heartless reveille
dismantles the sweetest of dreams,
beware, rude bird, of my fury;
righteous wrath permits fierce extremes.

Engulfed in a devouring fire
and lulled by a beautiful lie
upon my heart another's lay,
the trembling heart of Eleonore,
and made me drunk with ecstasy.

God, what pleasures, what a heaven
would have been mine without your fuss!
Villain! That vociferation
on the cusp of my happiness
guaranteed both dream and mistress
vanished into oblivion.

I must admit I have strayed far, in these verses, from the simplicity of Anacreon. I would even, for the sake of making it better known, have preferred to quote Anson's translation, were it not for the presence of BATHILLE in that erotic fantasy, which I judge too Greek for us French.

Lovers of the literal will no doubt criticise such poetic license, but I do believe this is how to translate good poets from one language into another. By all means be exact and faithful when conveying the precepts of Galen or the aphorisms of Hypocrates; but in poetry there is no harm in allowing oneself to tone down images, correct expressions, or prefer Eleonore over Bathille: Littera occidit, spiritus vivificat³, says Saint Paul.

It is a long time since I wrote my version of this piece, which was destined for the first edition of Love. To Eleonore. I allowed myself then even greater liberties. Here it is: let the critics be its judge.

2ND IMITATION
DREAM
_____________________

TO ELEONORE

SUCH a blissful night. Such a gratifying dream.
For a moment my troubles dissolved into calm.
You'll never believe it, hard-hearted Eleonore.
I was sitting near a spring, with you beside me.
Sleep had snagged my brain in a web of fantasy
that my senses fell for.
Breezes played through the branches, picking at the leaves.
I felt their breath along my skin,
I heard the surge and burble of little fountains
and the birds' flirts, chirping up in the canopy.⁴

You know that, from afar, I shake at sight of you:
here, close, I was undone by your bewitching air—
your composure thrown, seemingly so moved
even the dreamer didn't dare
believe in the bliss of his own dream.
So many delicious ministrations received!
What I said, felt, what I became—
can I contrive the words that make it real again?
What turmoil churned the depths of my astonished soul!
What a drunken rout of senses!
Against your breast I pressed a thousand hot kisses,
and you flushed suddenly red as a fresh-blown coal…
when, out from the thorny shrub behind me,
erupts an abrupt clatter of branches and leaves
and my furious rival Lisimon appears,
a spy, it seems, on my amorous larceny.
Shaken, quaking with rage at his effrontery,
I jolt awake, wrenched out of both vision and bliss.

And so the dark wings of night
beat away with my foolish paradise,
but the fire that sears inside
cannot be quenched with morning's light.

If I'm lost in a dream for a few glad moments
(their number is all too easy to calculate)
day comes soon enough to reawaken torments.

STORM
_____________________

IDYLL VI

SHEPHERDESS, please suppress your anger and alarm:
I have not returned to press my spurned addresses.
Offended as you are, I know, in that regard,
I surrender. But cast your eyes up at the skies,
where everything signifies an approaching storm.
Your sheep need you to usher them away from harm.
I mean, Eleonore, only to be of service.

And yet you seem still unperturbed. Look at the clouds
up there, leaden and murky, stacking their dark loads;
look at the the climbing, flying swirls of dust and leaves
caught in the force that the whim of the north wind wields,
the sporadic water-drops bursting against you,
the moaning in the woods as the gusts crush their way,
the shivering flutter of those birds fleeing by…
All reasons for alarm! Portents that will prove true!
Hurry, there is no longer time to guide the flock.
Lightning is cracking, thunder is crashing now—
get a move on. See here, there is a deep grotto
where we can safely shelter ourselves from the shocks.

But now you are scared again... How your heart quivers!
You are shaking—Oh, but you can banish those fears.
I can be close to you and waive cajolery.
Just let me stay by your side while the storm roars on,
until the squalls and the explosions are all done.
Well, disdainful shepherdess, I am on my way…
Calm yourself and follow me to this hushed harbour
where thunder and lightning will never penetrate.
These thick laurels and towering rocks make a fort,
a stout bulwark against the heavens' distemper.
Come and sit down here, breathe, and bask in the respite.
You are squeezing my hand! Oh glorious minute!
And now you grab onto me like a frightened child
as if I were intent on leaving you behind.
What, me abandon you? There is no need to fret:
I shall never leave, though the skies be in ferment.
How long have I yearned for this sweetest of moments!
If only it were born of love and not of fright
—oh do permit Auguste that flattering fancy.
Have you not been imposing a strict self-restraint?
Perhaps you do love me, and it was modesty
and not contempt that prompted such frigidity.
All this trembling, this excessive agitation,
can it be part of Love's exquisite master plan?
You keep silent. Your eyes fix themselves on the ground.
You are blushing. A smile. Oh tender eloquence!
No, do not speak. No need for words. This chaste silence,
this blush, this smile, tells me all that needs to be told.

Let the tumult continue to fume at my head,
today is, of all my days, the one I shall prize.
There is nothing more needed to ask of the stars.
I am home to the eye of calm in this storm's heart.

NAME
_____________________

IDYLL VII

THE Sun-God's everlasting pride and joy,
young laurel, on your tender budding stem
my hand wishes to cut the cherished name
of my beloved; cut it deep, to stay,
the way her image cuts into my heart.
May she with her Auguste keep faith as long
as green leaves flourish on your spreading branch;
and may my brazen hope bear fruit at last,
and not be barren, like the laurel's song.

Happy laurel, as your unfurling leaves
will grow and spread to weave the coat you wear,
with them will swell the name of Eleonore.
Then you will hear the Naiads from the streams,
the gods and goddesses deep in the woods,
the meadow deities and forest nymphs,
in transports of delight, with dancing treads,
salute you with their glad ecstatic hymns.

The hardy pine, the lachrymose cypress,
the proud palm tree which Idumeans grew,
all the lives that ornament the forest,
outrivalled, cede dominion to you.
And as for me, I'll always gird my crown,
beloved tree, with your bright foliage.
You'll be my confidant, my witness, bound
to guard the secret of the vows I pledge.
You'll know of my defeats, and of my wins:
you'll keep the whole account of joys and pains.

May heaven, heedful of my heartfelt prayers,
prolong the spring, to honour you alone;
but may the shade of your enfolding boughs
deny those fickle shepherds a safe home;
and may the raven's wing not rise to blight
the respite of this cradling abode,
but let only the nightingale alight
to lullaby her young with gentle odes.

FISHING
_____________________

IDYLL VIII

NIGHT lets the dark into the sky,
beloved, come along with me
through calm air, by the quiet sea,
where breath is freed and purified.
You know that nothing can erase
whatever piques our senses here.
As light sea breezes tease the clear
water, scribbling on its surface,
come with me for just a moment,
my shepherdess: your rustic hut
is not, trust me, the only spot
where smiles are in their element.
When night restores the shadows' shield
what an exquisite spectacle
is the tract of blackness, jewelled
by the glint of star reflections,
the sea vying with the heavens
to flaunt its scintillating hoard,
catching and shattering the orb
of the moon-light on crystal folds
of the clear sea-water's billows.
Come the day I'll play my musette,
mimic of the flute's flawless tones,
and sing of my sorrow's secret,
casting tunes from love's tender moans.
Or, if my complaint upsets you,
I shall bow at once to your sway,
make Doris, Glaucus and Neptune
the rousing subjects of my lay.

Into the waves' endless motion,
—your cherished charges safely stowed,
pastured in flowery meadows—
shepherdess and fisherwoman,
my Eleonore of the waters,
cast your cunning line to cozen.
Mad for a bite of your fine lures
you will see them make their play,
jealous to be Eleonore's prey,
fleeing rocks, splitting the water,
flocking from the reeds' safe shelter,
all the nymphs, in a stir to serve,
bearing you gifts of bright crystal
and tributes of sparkling coral
from the roofs of their secret caves.

FIRST LOVE
_____________________

IDYLL IX

NO, nothing will ever extinguish the passion
that set the heart alight for the very first time.
Even with time itself it won't be overcome
but thrive, burning, unseen under layers of ash.
Who hasn't often thought, danger being absent,
that they could keep love at bay, smothered in their heart?
Fool! Without warning a small breeze makes its entrance,
blows, and in that instant a licking flame is sparked.

And there've been times when I imagined I could change
—idle dream, to flatter my pride and ease my hurt—
when all I could do was run once more to be burnt
on the one who blithely coupled me to her chains.
In vain I've tried to be the one who was faithless
while my sighs and pinings for her went on, ceaseless,
everything mere kindling and fuel to my fire.

Here I think of the day when my lovely mistress
promised to me her hand, perjuring as she smiled.
There I remember the brush of a soft caress.
This place witnessed a slight, and then such tenderness
I got drunk on the sweets of being reconciled.
What more to say? All these shepherdesses and nymphs
who come to beguile my senses and distract me,
courting my weaknesses, fickle, amorous whims,
simply remind me more and more of her beauty.

Tempted by the charms of Chloris or Sylvia,
taken with all their comeliness, their forms, their eyes,
A hundred times more beautiful is Eleonore,
I say, and hug my shackles to me, as I whine.

You are the one I love, the one whom I adore,
and, far from accusing fate of being cruel,
I dare to thank it: I alone can boast the boon
of being born to love the matchless Eleonore.

JEALOUSY
_____________________

IDYLL X

OH my beloved Eleonore,
I renounce my sins at your feet;
I was taken in by liars
when I accused you of deceit.
I revolt from this vile distrust.
I repulse this slanderous doubt.
From now on waste not a minute
on the fear that your own Auguste
accuses you of breaking faith:
before the gods I swear this oath.
Now let us be clear where we stand.
Lips, the very channel of love,
I do believe in that sweet bond
you swore, to love me to the grave.
And if I should perjure myself,
if ever moan of an offence,
may the sun that burns in the skies
cease to send its light to my eyes.
Yes, I concede, my charge was false,
so punish my fault if you must
then, just between the two of us,
acknowledge that you gave me cause.
Tyrcis is in love with you too,
his attentions no great secret.
The other day, when I caught you,
you startled apart like culprits.
You stammered, both, and grew confused.
He was bewildered, you upset.
He whitened, you flushed red as wine.
He threw a glance at you, you smiled.
I've seen that blush, that smiling face,
and know too well what they confess.
Just so, Eleonore, when my heart
spilled its vow to love you ever,
I saw that smile, that blush, play out
—and you say you are no traitor!
—and my suspicion is a slight!
—perfidious, cruel lover!
What am I saying? Idiot!
There I go again, accusing.
Ah, forgive me, please, my darling.
I am perjured in my own court.
Alas! But, dear, do remember,
it's love that makes me demented.
And for us, weak humanity,
promises often stay empty.

After a shipwreck the pilot
swears never again to set sail:
comes the calm, he is at his post,
returned to the mercy of fate.
The soldier, tired of constant fright,
vows that now he will take his ease:
the hero's trumpet ups and blares,
he arms, and races back to fight.

OBSTACLE
_____________________

IDYLL XI

LITTLE stream, so proud of your currents' swift advance,
stop: Eleonore is waiting on the other side.
Halt the course of your waters' meandering dance
and, in payment, instant licence shall I provide
to pour your flood across my luscious pasturelands.

Still you swell, avaricious little rivulet!⁵
Day approaches—oh heavens, dawn is upon us.
Eleonore is waiting and I am still in place.
How, eager torrent, may I halt that headlong spate?
Don't you remember the pains I took to please you?
I risked the anger of Ismene and Chloris
when I held my flocks off your delicious greenness
to save your verges and their flowery garnish.
Many times, too, in the grip of a burning thirst,
tempted by your clean waters—even at the worst—
I swear to the gods I dared not break that shimmer,
and refused to help myself, ungrateful river!
My verse is the reason your name is so famous;
and the shade that staves off the scald of summer's brand,
letting you flow, cool and fresh, under its aegis,
comes from the laurels I planted with my own hand.
Yes, I adorned your banks with them when, a mere drift,
you trickled across the scoured surface of your bed,
your course thwarted by the stubborn impediment
of an uprooted shrub's limb, ripped off by the wind.
And look at you today, impetuous torrent,
swollen with foam and proud of your fierce currents,
tossing bits of broken rocks with a glad clatter,
and haughtily spurning your shores and my summons.
But shortly your hour of swagger will be over;
I shall witness you, soon, the least of waterways,
burbling and scraping over a ground of pebbles.
Then, ungrateful one, to avenge my troubles,
I shall trouble your banks; I shall sully your waves;
I shall assault you with a thousand injuries
and send you to dirty the seas with your soiled flow.

RETURN
_____________________

IDYLL XII

THIS is something new, this air of indifference!
After a long exile I am back in your arms,
Eleonore. Oh God, what misguided confidence!
I never thought we'd reunite on such cold terms.
I am the same still, while you are far from the same.
Heavens! Such tenderness, and now such cruelty!
Tell me, please, the cause of your greeting me so grim.
Has someone cast aspersions on my loyalty?
Perhaps, in my absence, an odious rival
has, in your hearing, made indictments against me.
You have a hundred proofs of my fidelity,
you know your Auguste, yet you credit that viper?
No, trust your eyes rather than jealous enemies;
let them bear witness to my honest devotion,
seeing and judging. What could better recognise
the secret ways of the heart that has enthroned you
than those gorgeous eyes which, from the day love beat me,
saw through to the stifled fire that smouldered beneath?
Fool that I am! When I look for it inside her,
I find no clue as to the cause of this new grief.
It's not disdain that's causing her to act so mean,
but pride. Time was when she was less of a picture,
and had not learned to love a doting entourage:
my standing then held firm, immune to sabotage.
This innumerous host that is now giving chase
increases, she notes, with the bloom of her beauty,
deeming her its property, its life, its goddess,
and, despite her dismissals, an arrant madness
flatters itself it can placate her vanity.
One is in a swoon for her alabaster breast,
another for her lips and miraculous eyes;
a look from her turns the adoring crowd white-faced,
a smile fells at her feet a hundred worshippers.
And while she is intent on fastening their chains,
loftily enslaving all hearts to her command,
alas, does Eleonore even think of my pain?
Surfeited with triumph, she violates her bond.
Remember how you caught me with your promises:
am I to languish forever, Mistress Cruel?
If I have to count your heart among my losses,
to what shall I consecrate my days and my soul?

LOVE NEST
_____________________

IDYLL XIII

IF, Irene, you are content with esteem,
it will be easy to satisfy you;
but if you expect swoons of love from me
don't hold your breath—those wishes are idle.
You are a union of charms and graces,
beautiful indeed to my gladdened eye;
but even those charms, graces and beauty
cannot alone hold me in their traces.

If I turn down the place that in your heart,
easy shepherdess, you want me to hold
do not, please, accuse me of being hard.
Your flock of followers are daft and wild,
finding in you an ever-fruitful nest.
One has barely cracked forth into the light
when, out of its shell, another one steps.
The seniors furnish plentiful fodder
to the cadets, who promptly in their turn
deliver sustenance to the juniors.
In the end, swelling every day, the throng
could challenge the theories of Archytas.⁶
Their colours are many and various.
One is crimson, another violet;
one sky-blue, another simple milk-white.
Here is one with plumes of deepest purple,
there one's wings brandish a golden sparkle.
But, sadly, a tally of their features
adds up to many more charms than virtues.
Such, alas, is this shifty multitude.
And in humours it is yet more varied.
One is panic-stricken, another bold.
One exists in prey to dark suspicions.
While one intimidates, another folds.
There's a face that's glazed with exultation.
One will snatch the blindfold off his brother,
bows and torches carried off by others.
But, after this parade of sly finesse,
each theft is followed up with a caress.
These lovers, hating each other to death,
live with you, condemned to a single path.
And you'd prefer me to be so craven
as to dwell willingly in such a hell!
Don't count on it - I prize my peace too well
and shun the pain of that rowdy midden:
I couldn't endure it for a minute.
A superior choice is in my sights:
let Irene find a more biddable host
and I a more harmonious billet.
We must desire what gratifies the most.
Eleonore has accepted my tributes,
so keep your roost, and I shall keep my heart.
That way will you reap the sweetest of fates
and happiness, for both, be in the stars.
You want the love of fawning idiots?
You'll find those kind of lovers everywhere!
I want a heart that's true, tender and clear,
the hardest of quests. And I have found it.

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