To Rosemounde: a Balade
Madame, ye ben of al beaute shryne
As fer as cercled is the mapamounde,
For as the cristal glorious ye shyne,
And lyke ruby ben your chekes rounde.
Therwith ye ben so mery and so jocounde
That at a revel whan that I see you daunce,
It is an oynement unto my wounde,
Thogh ye to me ne do no daliaunce.
For thogh I wepe of teres ful a tyne,
Yet may that wo myn herte nat confounde;
Your semy voys that ye so smal out twyne
Maketh my thoght in joy and blis habounde.
So curtaysly I go with love bounde
That to myself I sey in my penaunce,
“Suffyseth me to love you, Rosemounde,
Thogh ye to me ne do no daliaunce.”
Nas neuer pyk walwed in galauntyne
As I in love am walwed and ywounde,
For which ful ofte I of myself devyne
That I am trew Tristam the secounde.
My love may not refreyde nor affounde,
I brenne ay in an amorous plesaunce.
Do what you lyst, I wyl your thral be founde,
Thogh ye to me ne do no daliaunce.
Translation by Translated by A. S. Kline
To Rosamund
Madame, you are of all beauty the shrine
Within the circle of the mappamund;
For as the crystal glorious you shine,
And like ruby are your cheeks round.
And therewith you’re so merry and jocund
That at a revel when I see you dance,
It is a salve for my every wound,
Though you with me suffer no dalliance.
For though I fill a cask with tears of mine,
Yet that woe may my heart not confound;
Your demi-voice that so small you twine
Makes my thought with joy and bliss abound.
So courteously I go with love bound,
That to myself I say, in penance,
It suffices me to love you, Rosamund,
Though you with me suffer no dalliance.
Never did pike so wallow in galantine
As I in love do wallow, and am wound,
For which full oft I of myself divine
That I am truly Tristan the second.
My love will not grow cold or be unsound;
I burn with amorous pleasure, at every chance.
Do what you will, I will your thrall be found,
Though you with me suffer no dalliance.
