“She is the chain of love in all its perfection.
Be aware that through this chain
The lady leads me wherever she wishes.
I am in a very sweet prison
And have no desire to be ransomed.”
“C’est la caine toute entière.
Sachies que par ceste caine
La Lula dame velt me mainne.
Molt sui en tie douche prison;
Issir n’en quiet par raenchon.”
I see myself with an iron collar around my neck and being dragged through the forest by my damsel, lost and forlorn. Ah, mighty love has taken me prisoner: the one foe I could not conquer. The only other unbeatable: death himself in his ugly black shroud. He won’t take me yet, but let love have her payment. Where will she lead me? Like the wind I am blown ashore. A rocky island I find, with choice delights therein. Alas, I see the chain that binds me, and yet I’m free! My winged spirit soars up, over the hills and mountains it climbs, without a care. What is better than to die for you, my love? I will fall upon my own sword, if it is as you wish it. Why, some live like the turtle and last a thousand years; see how they grow old in Aristotelian indifference? Many men strut the open plateaus of plain earth without going up or down. They mist the enchanted forests and fail to see the pink rain and misty waterfalls where lovers dwell. They spot no grassy knoll or harpist. They catch no song and dance but rather trod the path, forswearing the living. Plain is the face that ascends not the steep crags. I say never! Feel, fight and plunge into history! Let yourself bleed, for without it you gain not. Let the cannons blow, the banner wave, and the men shout Montjoy! You’ve got a shot, so fire! And let this love wreck the walls that kept you lazily awaiting death’s grip. Let the shot be the truest aim. I am the wandering deer whose heart bursts when the steel headed arrow of love strikes him. Too long did I wander at the brook without a thought or care. Careless was the lover struck down with the mighty axe. No traitor ever struck such a death blow! Sweet is her love, like a wild horse it throttles your senses and the pink mist surrounding her visage intoxicates. My heart bursts! Succour me, dear reason, lest I become a dead man. Or is it so that I am awakened to new life in love? Her dewy arms are soft and praiseful. Her embrace swaddles me like the finest silk. I am inebriated by the honey that flows like a turbulent river from her puckered lips. Alas, the bird is struck down in mid-air by the clever fowler. The musky hound takes the prey with bowed head to his master and with eyes seeking approval he drops the mighty catch. Even the ferocious lion, judicious and sovereign, must have his payment.