Medieval

Can vei la lauzeta mover
De joi sas alas contral rai,
Que s’oblid’ e.s laissa chazer
Per la doussor c’al cor li vai,
Ai tan grans enveya m’en ve
De cui qu’eu veya jauzion,
Meravilhas ai, car desse
Lo cor de dezirer no.m fon.

Ai las! tan cuidava saber
D’amor, e tan petit en sai,
Car eu d’amar no.m posc tener
Celeis don ja pro non aurai.
Tout m’a mo cor, e tout m’a me,
E se mezeis e tot lo mon!
E can se.m tolc, no.m laisset re
Mas dezirer e cor volon.

Anc non agui de me poder
Ni no fui meus de l’or’ en sai
Que.m laisset en sos olhs vezer
En un miralh que mout me plai.
Miralhs, pus me mirei en te,
M’an mort li sospir de preon,
C’aissi.m perdei com perdet se
Lo bels Narcisus en la fon.

Merces es perduda, per ver,
Et eu non o saubi anc mai,
Car cilh qui plus en degr’aver,
No.n a ges, et on la querrai?
A! Can mal sembla, qui la ve,
Qued aquest chaitiu deziron
Que ja ses leis non aura be,
Laisse morrir, que no l.aon.

Pus ab midons no.m pot valer
Precs ni merces ni.l dreihz qu’eu ai,
Ni a leis no ven a plazer
Qu’eu l’am, ja mais no.lh o dirai.
Aissi.m part de leis e.m recre;
Mort m’a, e per mort li respon,
E vau m’en, pus ilh no.m rete,
Chaitius, en issilh, no sai on.

Tristans, ges no.n auretz de me,
Qu’eu m’en vau, chaitius, no sai on.
De chantar me gic e.m recre,
E de joi e d’amor m’escon

When I see the lark beating
Its wings in joy against the sun’s ray
Rising up into forgetfulness, letting itself fall
For the sweetness that comes to its heart,
Alas! Such envy then comes over me
Of everyone whom I see rejoicing,
I wonder that my heart,
Does not melt from desire.

Alas! How much I thought I knew
About love, and how little I know,
Because I cannot keep myself from loving
The one from whom I will gain nothing.
She has all my heart, and my soul,
And herself and all the world;
And when she left, nothing remained
But desire and a longing heart.

I have never had power over myself
Nor been by own man from the very hour
When she let me see into her eyes,
Into a mirror that gives me much pleasure.
Mirror, since I saw myself in you,
Deep sighs have slain me,
That I have lost myself just as the handsome
Narcissus did in the fountain.

Mercy is indeed lost,
And I never knew it,
Because she, who ought to have most of it,
Has none, and where will I look for it?
Ah! It would never seem, when looking at her,
That she would let this poor, love-sick wretch,
Who will never be well without her,
To die, without helping him.

Since these things will never bring me good from my lady,
Neither prayers, pity, nor the rights I have,
Nor is it a pleasure to her
That I love her, I will never tell her again.
Thus I part from her and give her up.
She has slain me, and through death I will respond,
And I go away, since she does not retain me,
Wretched, into exile, I know not where.

Tristan, you will have nothing more from me,
For I go away, wretched, I know not where.
I will withdraw from singing and renounce it,
And I hide myself from joy and love.