Domna, tant vos ai prejada

Raimbaut de Vaqueiras

Domna, tant vos ai prejada,
sius plaz, q’amar me voillaz,
qu’eu sui vostr’endomenjaz,
car es pros et enseignada,
e toz bos prez autrejaz;
per qem plai vostr’amistaz.
car es en toz faiz cortesa,
s’es mos cors en vos fermaz
plus q’en nulla genoesa:
per q’er merces, si m’amaz;
e pois serai meilz pagaz
qe s’era miaill ciutaz,
ab l’aver, q’es ajostaz,
        dels Genoes.

Jujar, voi no s’e corteso,
qe me chaidejai de cho,
qe niente no farò.
ance fasse voi apeso:
vostr’ami non serò. 
certo ja ve scannarò.
provenzal malagurado,
tal enojo ve dirò:
sozo, mozo, escalvado!
ni ja voi no amarò,
q’e’chu bello mari ò,
qe voi no se’, ben lo so.
andai via, frar’, en tempo
        millorado.

Domna gent’ et essernida,
gai’ e pros e conoissenz,
vallam vostre chausimenz.
car jois e jovenz vos gida,
cortesi’ e prez e senz,
e toz bos ensegnamenz;
per qeus sui fidels amaire,
senes toz retenemenz,
francs, humils e mercejaire,
tant fort me destreing em venz
vostr’amors qe m’es plasenz;
per qe sera chausimenz,
s’eu sui vostre benvolenz
        e vostr’amics.

Jujar, voi semellai mato,
qe cotal razon tegnei.
mal vignai e mal andei!
non ave’ sen per un gato,
per qe trop me deschasei,
qe mala chosa parei;
nè no faria tal cosa,
si sia’ fillo del rei.
credi voi q’e sia mosa?
mia fe, no m’averei!
si per m’amor ve cevei,
oguano morre’ de frei:
tropo son de mala lei
        li Provenzal.

Domna, no siaz tant fera,
qe nos cove ni s’eschai;
anz taing ben, si a vos plai,
qe de mo sen vos enqera,
e qeus am ab cor verai,
e vos qem gitez d’esmai,
q’eu vos sui hom e servire,
car vei e conosc e sai
qant vostra beutat remire,
fresca cum rosa en mai,
q’el mont plus bella non sai;
per q’eus am et amarai,
e si bona fes mi trai,
        sera pechaz.

Jujar, to proenzalesco,
s’eu ja gauz aja de mi,
non prezo un genoi;
no t’entend plui d’un toesco,
o sardo o barbari,
ni non o cura de ti.
voi t’acavilar co mego?
si lo sa lo meu mari
mal plait averai con sego.
bel messer, ver e’ ve di’:
no vollo questo lati.
fradello, ço voja fi:
proenzal, va, mal vesti,
        largaime star.

Domna, en estraing cossire
m’avez mes et en esmai,
mas enqeraus prejarai,
qe voillaz q’eu vos essai,
si cum provenzals o fai,
        qant es pojaz.

Jujar, no serò con tego
pos asi te cal de mi:
meill vara per sant Martì
s’andai a ser Opetì,
qe dar v’a fors’un rocì,
        car si jujar.

A French Minstrel and an Italian Lady

Samantha Pious

Domina, I’ve begged so long
that you should love me, if you want,
since I’m your slave, your serving-man,
for you are noble and well-bred,
and you provide all noble goods—
therefore I crave your amity.
You are, in all things, courteous.
My heart is far more fixed on you
than any other lady here,
wherefore I cry you mercy, sweet!
and then I shall be better pleased
than if the city keys were mine
with all the wealth they have, in fine,
        the Genovese.

—Player, you are insolent.
How dare you talk to me like that!
Before I come to it, I hope
they’ll hang you from the gallows tree!
Your sweet is what I’ll never be.
I’ll geld you, pervert, Provençal!
I tell you, nasty serving-boy,
I have a husband, handsome, too,
and more than you, I know, is he.
Off, little fellow, I have got
        a better man than thee. 

—Domina, discreet and noble,
light of heart, upstanding, wise,
instruct me, lady, in your ways,
for you are led by youth and joy,
and courtesy, esteem, good sense,
and every worthy excellence.
Therefore I am your devotee.
I could hold nothing back from you,
upright, modest, merciful,
so ardently I’m torn apart
by love for you, in pleasing pain …
thus it would be compassionate
to choose me as your acolyte
        and your ami.

—Player, now it’s clear: you’re mad
to stick it out so stubbornly.
You’re not welcome—go to hell!
You must be dumber than a cat,
you’re so unpleasant, talking of
such ugliness! I wouldn’t do a thing like that
were I the daughter of a king. 
Do you think I’m a fool like you?
By my faith, you’ll never take me!
If you were bound to have my love,
you’d freeze to death, yourself and all
those infidels, those heretics, 
        the Provençals!

—Domina, don’t be so fierce,
it isn’t right, it’s not your style!
Don’t take it badly, if you please,
that, in my way, I should inquire
and court you with a loyal heart
and beg you’ll end my suffering,
since I’m your serving-man, your slave,
for I do see, and feel, and know
when you, my lady, shine as bright
and timeless as the rose in May,
the world could hold no greater gift.
Therefore I love, will always love,
and if I loved you in bad faith,
        it would be sin.

—Player, all your Provençalish …
by my hopes of happiness,
it isn’t worth a single cent!
You might as well be talking German,
Sardinian, or Barbarian
(and anyway, it’s Greek to me).
Are you harassing me or not?
If my husband finds you out,
you’ll have to answer to him, see!
Player, it’s true what I’m telling you—
I don’t like your Latin lingo,
I assure you, little fellow.
Beat it, dirty Provençal, 
        and let me be!

—Domina, in such estrangement
you have placed me, such dismay!
Still, I’ll beg for one thing more:
that, if you please, I might display
how well a Provençal performs
        in the saddle.

—Player, I won’t be with you,
since this is what you think of me!
By Saint Martin, you should go
to Sir Orsino, who will know
to mount you on a nag or ass,
        since you’re an actor.