#bernart de ventadorn

[outstanding-quotes]

Alas, half dead with love’s dismay

Sometimes my sad thoughts fret me so

That thieves could carry me away

And I would be the last to know.

Bernart de Ventadorn, “When Tender Grass and Leaves Appear”

[laku-incarnate]

When I see the lark beating

by Bernart de Ventadorn

When I see the lark beating Its wings in joy against the rays of the sun That it forgets itself and lets itself fall Because of the sweetness that comes to its heart, Alas! Such great envy then overwhelms me Of all those whom I see rejoicing, I wonder that my heart, at that moment, 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 the whole 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 pleases me so much. Mirror, since I saw myself in you, I have been slain by deep sighs, That I have lost myself just as the handsome Narcissus did in the fountain.

I despair of ladies; I will never trust them again; As I used to defend them Now I shall abandon them, Because I see no one who does any good for me Against her who destroys and confounds me, I fear and distrust them all, Because I know very well that they are all alike.

She really shows herself to be a woman in this, My lady, for which I condemn her; Because she does not want what she should want, And what she shouldn't do, she does. I have fallen on an evil grace, And I have indeed acted like the fool on the bridge And I do not know how this happened to me, Unless I tried to climb too high on the mountain.

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 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 ask me to stay, 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.

[lesser-known-composers]

Bernart de Ventadorn (fl.12Cent.)

[pourpasserlamelancholie]

I could regale with some stanzas of 12th century trobador songs (Bernart de Ventadorn and Giraut de Bornelh) lol

please do look it up if you dont know the date bc there may be at least an approximate answer and otherwise the last option will completely dominate and this poll will be boring.

and dont be like 'but i cant sing'... just answer the earliest tune you know well enough that you COULD sing it

periods of western classical music provided only for reference

[omens-for-ophelia]

Time comes and goes and returns by days, by months, by years, and I, alas, know not what to say, for my longing is always one, it is always one and never changes.

-Bernart de Ventadorn

part 5 of my ineffable kisses series - imagining some kisses throughout their canon timeline that went decidedly better than That Kiss did...

<< start || part 2 || part 3 || part 4 || part 5 - middle ages || part 6 || part 7 || part 8 >>

this one fought me a LOT because i was having some real RSI flare ups, but i do love the idea of them thriving in the era of courtly love and chivalry, i think it suits them beautifully. lady crowley and her bold knight sir aziraphale... someone fetch my lute!

note: in every work in this series, aziraphale & crowley are queer celestials, regardless of their gender presentation, pronouns or otherwise.

[nebbyy]

Hi! I'm not sure if you are currently taking requests, so feel free to ignore mine if you aren't! If you are taking them, however, would you please write something for King Baldwin IV overhearing reader sing and falling further in love with her because of her soft and sweet voice? Upon realizing that he's there, she becomes extremely flustered and apologizes for disrupting his peace and quiet. Thank you!

King Baldwin IV x reader - Sweetest of melodies

A/N: omg it’s been so long since I’ve received a request! I can’t lie, Baldwin is my supreme comfort character, I think I’ll never stop writing fro him because it gives me sooo much joy😩😩😩 I personally like to think of this piece as taking place a few months after Baldwin’s and reader’s wedding, so it could be considered a sequel for my first fic ever. Also, the song mentioned in this piece is a real song from the 12th century called "Can vei la lauzeta" (in English,"When I see the lark") by Bernart de Ventadorn, and the painting is "Lovers in a garden" by Charles Edward Perugini!!

Oh btw!! I’m working on a long ass series about him, based off of a prompt by @phantomsghoulette  which I absolutely LOVED. Sooo all the KoH fans stay tuned for future updates🤭

Warning: nothing really, just pure fluff. Maybe you could say that religious innuendos could be something triggering for some people but I don’t know. There might be ONE, SLIGHTLY spicy mention but only if you squint really really hard. Also, keep in mind that the historical accuracy in my fics is rather relative, I try to add some details here and there but I don’t have the knowledge (nor the skills) to write a piece 100% accurate to the real history. Also, reader’s gender is female and uses she/her pronouns!!

Word count: 2918

Someone would say Baldwin's patience could already be put to test by only his illness, which she ruthlessly does not grant him a moment's respite, the eternal enemy of his body and his spirit. But no, to this perpetual torment of his had to be added the perilous duties of a king. And it was certainly not governing his people and lands that sucked what little energy he had left; this duty of his, given by his father and willed by divine design, he had long since embraced.

It was the nobles, the leeches who had drained him of his lifeblood lately. It was their endless demands, the insidious words that hissed behind his back, the languid bows and sleazy gifts designed only to gain some favor from him. Looking around him, he seemed to see only vices and sinners, power-hungry beasts just waiting for his moment of weakness so they could feed on what Baldwin had under his power.

In fact, not without reason in the past the young monarch had attempted to abdicate the throne and leave it in the hands of one of his sisters, rid himself of this burden and devote the rest of his short life taking care of his declining health and to nurture his mind away from so much corruption. At times he dreamed of retiring to France, experiencing for the first time that cold climate and verdant landscape of which his preceptors and advisors told him so much.

In fact, not without reason in the past the young monarch had attempted to abdicate the throne and leave it in the hands of one of his sisters, rid himself of this burden and devote the rest of his short life taking care of his declining health and to nurture his mind away from so much corruption. At times he dreamed of retiring to France, to experience for the first time that cold climate and verdant landscape of which his preceptors and advisors told him so much.

And he dreamed of taking you with him, imagined how sweet his life would be if his only concerns were taking care of his health and you, faithful wife, sole blessing in his life battered by such burdens. How he would wish that his days would revolve around you, that his first thought in the morning would be riding by your side through the flourishing meadows, and his last thought in the evening would be caressing your face as you lie slumbering in his arms.

It would have been a blissful fate his, if only Sybilla's husband had not died at the very moment when he would have needed him most. If only his mother had not convinced him that Guido de Lusignan was a good fit for his sister and had continued to seek a new consort for her, perhaps that fate would not have been snatched from him so early. Too late to repent now, for Baldwin would have preferred to die agonizingly on his throne rather than leave power in the hands of that bumptious and arrogant lord, who was noble only in title.

And so he found himself in this sort of hellish limbo, forced into a position that should never be required of a man in his condition, but prevented by his morality from abandoning his reign, impelled by faith in God's greater plan, that his suffering should not be in vain.

And his faith always seemed to strengthen when he had a way to escape the stifling air that characterized the throne room, always packed with knights and crusaders and nobles, when he had a way to retreat to the palace gardens, one of the few verdant places in all of Jerusalem.

With slow, swaying steps, Baldwin strolled slowly among the local palm trees and flower beds from the faraway lands, those where men speak Italian and the more distant ones, those from which his fathers came. Exotic fruits mingled with those more congenial to the French, who out of nostalgia for their lands and fields did what they could to bring the seeds of these plants with them to overseas.

His mind seemed to go out, shifting his attention from the constant buzz of court demands and duties to the chirping of birds perched on the roof, to the eviction of the soft branches that shielded him from the scorching sun. He enjoyed the refreshing air that reigned in that small oasis of greens, which was able to infiltrate the fabric of his white robes, crossing the bandages that covered much of his body and finally reaching his skin, numbed by leprosy. 

To tell the truth, of that refreshing sensation little reached his damaged nerves, if not for those few points that had been spared by the merciless disease, from which departed that unusual shiver that caused him a delicate smile of relief, enjoying the refreshing breeze. Then he closed his eyes and breathed in, discovering with satisfied surprise that that light gust was also a harbinger of an intoxicating perfume, a mixture of exotic and familiar.

How funny to think of the concept of "exotic", for an Angevin born and raised in the unknown lands of the east. For him it was exotic French fruit, exotic were the green plains and heavy clothing that brought his allies from the northwest, and equally alien to the snowy mountains and forest beasts that he saw drawn in detail in his childhood books. It was these changes of perspective that stimulated his mind in a myriad of thoughts and reflections, but in a pleasurable way for him, not as exhausting as his daily duties.

His reflections on exotic and local made his mind travel, wandering until he came to a subject very close to him: Muslims and Jews, reflecting well on the landscape in front of him, recognized that he could share with them the same concepts of what is foreign and what they can claim the original belonging. And he could not but reflect on how it must have been for the first inhabitants of Jerusalem to observe the Franks who came as conquerors, and filled their gardens with such foreign plants as those pale warriors who had taken possession of their dwelling... But after all, the French soldiers who were emissaries of God’s will needed something familiar to stabilize them as they fought to reclaim the Promised Land, ut Deus voluit.

But all his brooding over these matters of conquest and submission ended up in the background in his mind, when a colorful scarlet sphere caught his attention. An exquisitely red apple seemed to tempt him from a branch just above his head, beckoning him to be picked and savored by the king, that he might lose himself in the juicy sweetness of that fruit with origins so far removed from the Holy Land. But the king's modesty prevented him from yielding to that temptation, wanting to avoid exposing the advanced state of deterioration in which his mouth was.

And in fact if that temptation had been alive it would have pale in front of something much more captivating, a sound that echoed in the most melodious distance of the song of any nightingale. Baldwin was surprised to think that he had not realized before the melody that inibriated the atmosphere around him, so taken by the tribulations of his mind that he almost missed such an intoxicating song. He did not know what he felt once he arrived in Heaven, if he had ever arrived in spite of the unjust fate in Hell that the evil Saracens wished him. He didn’t know it, but if one ever had to imagine what Heaven sounded like, that song would come to mind.

When I see the lark beating 

Its wings in joy against the rays of the sun 

That it forgets itself and lets itself fall 

Because of the sweetness that comes to its heart

She sang in Occitan, the beautiful one in the distance. The voice of his people, of his lineage, that few in the palace can pronounce after so many years of distance from their homeland in Provence. Paying more attention to the echoing song, he would not even have had to approach it to give a face to that melodic voice: he knew how to recognize his wife’s voice.

Yet it was a new context in which he saw you, new facets of you that he had not yet had a chance to observe. Your voice, sweet as honey, venerable like all your other traits, he had never heard it except in speech, when you were proclaiming orders before your subjects with the authority fit for a queen, or when you laughed at the poems and performances of the court singers, or when you whispered in Baldwin’s ears sweet words, while you lay with bodies merged between the soft silk sheets. Always spoken, but never sung.

Alas! Such great envy then overwhelms me 

Of all those whom I see rejoicing,

But though he didn’t need to approach you to recognize you, the desire to see your face exceeded any of his other needs. As if mesmerized by the sound of a siren, Baldwin was advancing towards you, with steps so slow that it seemed a hunter about to catch a deer in the woods. He wanted nothing more than to hear you sing again, that you continue to bless him with that angelic melody. What worse sin would there be than to interrupt your song, more sacred than a prayer?

His stomach filled with butterflies and turned upside down like the beasts' jugglers, his breath seemed to stop in his throat, depriving him of the breath he no longer needed, as long as he could hear you sing a moment more. And her cheeks warmed, when finally she saw you among the white lilies, more beautiful than divine salvation.

I wonder that my heart, at that moment, 

Does not melt from desire.

Baldwin wondered if you sang with him in mind, if those words of love reflected your own emotional turmoil. 

Oh, if only it were so, and your singing equalled his own words inscribed in the sonnets and poems he composed in your honor, which he himself commissioned from your favorite singers to perform at banquets, only to steal an embarrassed smile and to see the blush of your cheeks, along with the glint in your eyes.

Whether it was or not, the outcome remained the same since he was at that moment in your proximity, in the same state mixed with adoration, love and wonder at the bold gesture. But if only he had confirmation from your words...

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.

"My angel, your voice sounds like heaven but your words are false." Baldwin practically saw you blow up from your session, completely taken aback by his sudden appearance, unaware that your husband has been acting as a secret public all this time. Your initial surprise quickly turns into a laugh to mask your embarrassment for being caught in a moment like this, when you thought you were alone to be able to run the streets of music with your voice.

"I beg your pardon, I thought I was alone in the gardens," your eyes met his own only for a moment, before you turned your face to try and hide the blush of your face, "it was just a silly song I heard singing to the Provençal knights. I hope I did not disrupt your walk, my love..”

He laughed softly, trying to hide his amusement from having caught you off guard. He approached you more quickly than when he did just a few moments before, but with the same phlegm that managed to inspire a feeling of safeness in you. Sitting by your side on the bare rock, he raised his bandaged hand to gently cup your face and make you turn your eyes towards him. It was only then, when you had no choice but to look at Baldwin in the face that you noticed how his eyes, the only part of his face exposed to the outside world, formed two half-moons, and you came to find that it was because of how widely he was smiling, as you lowered the veil from his face. 

He was making fun of you, you realized. With that swagger in his manner, you understood that his amusement came from your embarrassment at that silly misunderstanding. Laughing softly, he gently shook his head before bringing both hands to your face, holding it as if it were the most sacred of relics. "As much as I would love to hear you sing of your affection for me, just to hear your voice echoing in the air is the sweetest of gifts. How could you deprive me of this blessing thus far, my dear?"

You could do nothing but giggle at his sweet words, bringing your hands to his wrists to feel him closer to you. "You flatter me, my king. My voice boasts nothing more than those sweet melodies that the singers in the palace sing. Mine is only a dabble."

His gaze softened, his playful spirit addicted to your presence. He took the floor again, in a tone as soft as cotton, "At least this once, my queen, allow me to disagree with your words. My life may be short and my reality small, but never have I heard such an angelic voice, singing such sweet melodies. And God may not yet have granted me the ability to predict the future, but in my heart I know well that never will any singer be able to hold a candle to your beautiful voice, never will any song be able to express the same feeling of ecstasy.

"You, my angel, have managed to make a simple ballad an absolute work of art through your voice. I think I should take you with me into battle next time, for with your mere voice you could addict Saladin and his entire army.

"And seeing you here, angelic and perfect like the lilies that surround you, singing so softly that it would make any bird jealous, that I realize that whatever toil, whatever challenges God has stored up for me, and all those that still await me in my life, are worth it, if at the end of each of them there is you, voice of an angel, to hold a place for me in your arms of heaven." 

You were sure you were on the verge of crying a flood of tears, the result of pure emotion at his sweet words. It was not new to you that Baldwin worshipped you as much as the God to whom his kingdom was consecrated, from the first moment he got to hear your voice and admire your face, and you knew at once that he had become yours, body and soul. But it was new to you to see him like that, completely entranced by your simple being-it was something new. A wonderful newness that made you feel like the most desired of women on this earth.

Taken by a rush of boldness, you practically jumped into his arms, wrapping your arms around his neck; you ended up on top of him, with his hands around your hips. You both laughed, like two little boys frolicking in the gardens. And you left a kiss on his left cheek, then on the bridge of his nose. A kiss again on his forehead, and then down on the side of his lips. When you were about to give him another kiss, just where he most yearned for your lips, against his, you stopped a few inches away, with a wide smile, before speaking again, "If so little is enough to make your happiness, then I will sing to you every day, whenever you ask. Let me be your nightingale, your morning song and your lullaby all at once!"

"I couldn't wish for anything else, my dear. Now, however, I beg you, sing one more melody for me, before my duties drag me back to the palace, and I shall consider myself a blessed man."

"With great pleasure, my love." Your voice was now little more than a whisper. With a languid movement, Baldwin moved his body to rest his head on your lap, and you eagerly greeted him. After slightly moving the hood that veiled his head, so that you could play with his golden locks, you began to sing a new melody, one that this time spoke of reciprocated love, of the joy of being able to hold your loved one in your arms. But the words you sang barely reached Baldwin before his sky-colored eyes closed softly, his mind giving him at least a moment's despite from his perilous life. You continued to sing, caressing his face, which from day to day appeared more and more mutilated by his disease, singing the sweetest of melodies so as to prolong this idyll in which you and your husband found yourselves in. 

For with you Baldwin had a way of putting the crown aside, and being nothing more than a foolish young man in love, whose only duty was to love you, to love you with all the love that an angel like you deserved.

@sweetworkoffiction hope you like it <3

[mel-0n-earth]

Six-Song Soundtrack

Thanks @dreadfutures for tagging me!

If you're tagged, make a new post with links to music and/or lyrics describing the following:

1. An event that defines your character's past 2. How your character sees themselves 3. How others view them 4. Their closest relationship (platonic or romantic) 5. A major fight scene 6. End credits song

I'm going to make a soundtrack for the character of the Phantom from my Solavellan Phantom of the Opera AU, Phantom. (If you haven't read it...just trust me, I swear it will make sense). I've been thinking a lot on his character recently, and I get a lot of writing inspo from music, so I'm excited for this. My tastes are a bit...eclectic, but I have no shame. Stay with me, hold my hand.

Mosquito by the Dmitry Pokrovsky Ensemble (I can't explain this one too much without giving story spoilers, but it's not the lyrics so much as context. This is an example of Don Cossack protracted song. It was believed to be sung by Cossack warriors as they rode into battle).

Within by Daft Punk

Phantom of the Opera by Ghost (A Surprise to no one, I'm sure. Originally by Iron Maiden)

Can vei la lauzeta mover by Bernart de Ventadorn (an Occitan troubadour canso)

Dies Irae by Verdi (headphones warning, this one starts loud)

Song of Seikilos (Greek song dated between 1st and 2nd century, presumably written by the poet Seikilos, on whose grave it serves as an epitaph)

Links (sorry, the previews start in really weird places):

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[nanshe-of-nina]

now i dont condone cheating but u have to admit the historical importance adultery had on good music

[masayoshi-kawaharablr]

Bernart de Ventadorn - Can l'erba fresch'e.lh folha par (Instrumental)

[spellpharaoh]

second stanza of "the skylark" by bernart de ventadorn, trans. w. d. snodgrass

[lesser-known-composers]

Bernart de Ventadorn: Can vei la lauzeta

Opus 111

Bowed fiddle :Emmanuel Bonnardot Flute : Pierre Hamon Voice : Raphaël Boulay

[effata]

“No todos los hombres pueden ser grandes, pero pueden ser buenos”.

~ Confucio ~

“¡Sólo me preocupo del Amor,

Sólo pienso en el Amor,

Sólo creo en el Amor ¡

Ellos me dicen que no es verdad,

Que no es así,

Que hay algo más…

Pero yo les digo: ¡No¡ ¡No hay nada más¡

Sólo el Amor es la Verdad,

Y todo lo que un hombre hace,

En nombre del Amor,

¡Bien hecho está... ¡”

Bernart de Ventadorn,

Trovador Occitano del siglo XIII

[bluestangel]

Lady, the fairest ever born and the best I ever saw, I bow down before you with my hands together, on my knees and on my feet, in your gracious service; give me now, generously and openly a courtly gift—but I dare not say which one— which would make the prison you keep me in sweeter. Lady, I love you truly, freely, and in good faith, and I declare myself to be your man whoever asks me to whom I belong.

by Bernart de Ventadorn in XXXVII, 37–49, taken from Love and Death in Medieval French and Occitan Courtly Literature by Simon Gaunt

[pandaemoniumpancakes]

1. I have a heart so filled with joy    Everything changes its nature: Flowers white, crimson, and gold    Seems the frost, For with the wind and the rain    My fortune keeps on growing; Ah yes, my worth keeps mounting,    My song’s improving too. I have a heart so full of love    And joy and sweetness, That the ice appears to me a flower,    And the snow lies green

Bernart de Ventadorn, from ‘ Tant ai mo cor ple de joya‘, trans. James J. Wilhelm. 

   “2. I can go out without my clothes,/ Naked in my shirt,/ For fine, true love will keep me safe/ From wintry blasts.”

   “4. Still I have steady hope from her (Which does me little good),/ For she holds me as if in a balance/ Like a ship upon the waves,/ And I don’t know where to hide myself From woes besetting my senses.”

   “5. O God! Why am I not a swallow/ Winging through the air,/ Coming through the depths of night/ There inside her chamber?”

                        ❧

Tant ai mo cor ple de joya, tot me desnatura. Flor blancha, vermeilh'e groya me par la frejura, c'ab lo ven et ab la ploya me creis l'aventura, per que mos chans mont' e poya e mos pretz melhura. Tan ai al cor d'amor, de joi e de doussor,  per qu'el gels me sembla flor e la neus verdura.

[ochoislas]

Si veo la calandria batir de gozo alas contra el rayo, que trascordada se abate con tal dulzura en el pecho, ¡ay! siento entonces tal envidia de aquél a quien veo alegre, que pasmo tengo que de ansia mi corazón no se funda.

¡Ay, triste! Maestro en amores me creí y sólo soy párvulo, pues de amar no me sujeto quien nunca ha de mejorarme. Me hurtó el cor, a mí me hurtó, a ella misma y toda gente; y se apartó sin dejarme más que afán y cor ansioso.

Perdí la virtud de mí, no fui mío desde la hora en que me mostró sus ojos en espejo que me place. Desque me miré en ti, espejo, asmas del hondo me matan, pues me perdí, tal perdido fue bel Narciso en la fuente.

Pierdo la esperanza en damas, nunca más me fiaré de ellas; y como antes las amparaba, ya las desampararé. Que no me asiste ninguna cabe quien me abate y hunde. De todas dudo y recelo, que bien sé que son calañas.

En tal muestra ser mujer mi dama, lo que le afeo: no quiere lo que conviene sino que lo entredicho hace. En disfavor soy caído; hice tal loco en el puente. No sé por qué así me aviene salvo que piqué muy arriba.

Se perdió el favor de cierto —y no lo alcancé a saber—, pues quien debía tener sobra, horra está ¿do procurarlo? ¡Qué mal parece ante todos que a este anheloso cuitado, que no ha mejora sin ella, morir deje y no lo acorra!

Pues con mi dama no valen favor ni ruegos ni ley, y que la ame la desplace, nunca más se lo diré. De ella me aparto y renuncio; me mató, tal muerto arguyo, y parto pues no me tiene, desterrado no sé adónde.

No ganáis, Tristán, conmigo, pues parto a vagar, cuitado. Reniego de los cantares y del amor me recato.

*

Can vei la lauzeta mover de joi sas alas contra·l 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; ecan 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.

De las domnas me dezesper; ja mais en lor no·m fiarai; c’aissi com las solh chaptener, enaissi las deschaptenrai. Pois vei c’una pro no m’en te vas leis, que·m destrui e·m cofon, totas las dopt’e las mescre car be sai c’atretals se son.

D’aisso·s fa be femna parer ma domna, per qu’e·lh o retrai, car no vol so c’om deu voler, e so c’om li deveda, fai. Chazutz sui en mala merce, et ai be faih co·l fols en pon; e no sai per que m’esdeve, mas car trop puyei contra mon.

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, que[d] aquest chaitiu deziron que ja ses leis non aura be, laisse morir, que no l’aon!

Pus ab midons no·m pot valer precs ni merces ni·l drehz 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.

Bernart de Ventadorn

di-versión©ochoislas