La douza votz ai auzida
Del rosinholet sauvatge
Et es m'ins cor salhida
Si que tot lo cosida mals traihz qu'amors me dona,
M'adousa e m'asazona.
Et auriam be mester
L'autroi jois al meu damnatge.
The sweet voice I've heard
Of the wild nightingale,
And into my heart it has leaped,
So that all the worry
And the bad troubles that love gives me
It has soothed and softened.
And well could I use
Another's distress.



Ben es totz om d'avol vida
C'ab joi non a son estatge
E qui vas amor no guida
So cor e so dezirer;
Car tot can es s'abandona
Vas joi e refrim' e sona:
Prat e deves e verger,
Landes e pla e boschatge.
Indeed, any man is of vile life
Who with joy does not have his estate,
And who toward love does not guide
His heart and his desire;
For everything that is abandons itself
To joy and rings and resounds:
Prairies and gardens and orchards,
Heathlands and plains and bosks.

Not sung


Eu, las! Cui Amors oblida,
Que sui fors del dreih viatge,
Agra de joi ma partida,
Mas ira.m fai destorber;
E no sai on me repona
Pus mo joi me desazona;
E no.m tenhatz per leuger
S'eu dic alcu vilanatge.
I, alas! Whom love forgets
Because I am off the straight path,
Would have of joy my part,
But grief disturbs me;
And I know not where to hide
When [grief] my joy destroys.
And do not consider me frivolous
If I say certain coarse things.



Una fausa deschauzida
Traïritz de mal linhatge
M'a traït et es traïda,
E colh lo ram ab que.s fer;
E can autre l'arazona,
D'eus lo seu tor m'ochaizona;
Et an ne mais le derrer
Qu'eu, qui n'ai faih lonc badatge.
A false, rude
Traitress of bad lineage
Has betrayed me, and is herself betrayed,
And picks the branch with which she beats herself,
And when another speaks to her,
Of her own wrong she accuses him.
And from her the latecomers have more
Than I who have had a long wait.

Not sung


Mout l'avia gen servida
Tro ac vas mi cor volatge;
E pus ilh no m'es cobida,
Mout sui fols, si mais la ser.
Servirs c'om no gazardona,
Et esperansa bretona
Fai de senhor escuder
Per constum e per uzatge.
Much had I nobly served her
Until she had toward me a fickle heart;
And since she is not destined for me,
Much of a fool I am if I serve her more.
Service that one does not reward,
Like the Bretons' hope [for the return of K. Arthur],
Makes a squire of a lord,
By custom and habit.

Not sung


Pos tan es vas me falhida,
Aisi lais so senhoratge,
E no volh que.m si' aizida
Ni ja mai parlar no.n quer.
Mas pero qui m'en razona,
La paraula m'en es bona,
E m'en esjau volonter
E.m n'alegre mo coratge.
Since she has so failed me,
I leave thus her domain
And do not want her to be near me,
Nor ever more do I seek to speak [to her].
But he who speaks to me of her,
His word is good to me,
And I enjoy it willingly,
And lighten with it my heart.