Il Sir giura sul "poenis" suo

Voices of Earlier English: Sir John Davies Swears By Cock Posted: 02 Sep 2018 11:34 PM PDT A Lover Speaks By Cock Sir John Davies (b. 1569) Faith, wench, I cannot court thy sprightly eyes, With the base Viall placed betweene my Thighes I cannot lispe, nor to some Fiddle sing, Nor run uppon a high strecht Minikin. I cannot whine in puling Elegies, Intombing Cupid with sad obsequies. I am not fashioned for these amorous times, To court thy beutie with lascivious rimes. I cannot dally, caper, daunce and sing, Oyling my saint with supple sonneting. I cannot crosse my armes, or sigh ay me, Ay me Forlorne: egregious Fopperie. I cannot busse thy fist, play with thy hayre, Swearing by Jove, Thou art most debonaire.  Not I by Cock, but shall I tel thee roundly, Harke in thine eare, zounds I can fuck thee soundly. 2 base viall] Bass viol; bass vial; base vile 4 Minikin] treble string of a viol; sweetheart 10 Oyling] flattering 11 Crosse my arms] stereotyped pose of whiny-ass lovers 13 buss] to oh-so-politely kiss 15 by Cock] common minced form of "by God." But the vulgar sense of "penis" existed then as well.

Guerre stellari! Bella stellaria ad camenae modos

ph: Anselma Lo





Non vi resta che seguire questo link con UN clic,
e ringraziare l'esimio autore.

http://blogicarian.blogspot.com/2019/06/pluri-versiculi-latini-de-bellis.html?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+TheB










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blogicarian on the Net, the marriage of true mindes

ph: TroveRete Potenza in Lombardia

Let me not to the marriage of true mindes

Admit impediments, love is not love

Which alters when it alteration findes,

Or bends with the remover to remove.

O no, it is an ever fixed marke

That lookes on tempests and is never shaken;

It is the star to every wandring barke,

Whose worths unknowne, although his higth be taken.

Lov's not Times foole, though rosie lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickles compasse come,

Love alters not with his breefe houres and weekes,

But beares it out even to the edge of doome:

   If this be error and upon me proved,

   I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

4 alters...finds] love that is changed when the beloved changes (i.e. ages) is not true love

bends with...remove] to change one's state when one's beloved is gone

5 mark] shipping beacon 

8 whose worth's unknown] whose nature and substance (and also value) is beyond human comprehension. 

his height be taken] its altitude is scientifically or mathematically calculated. "To take height" was a normal technical term in astronomy and navigation. 

9 Time's fool] something for Time to laugh at, as a king would laugh at the fool at court. 

12 to the edge of doom] until Doomsday. i.e. not "til death do us part" but till the end of the world. 

13 upon me proved] proved against me. This is the language of legal challenge.   

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L'ossessione poetica dell'antico anglosassone

ph: TroveRete, Cheers dello scheletro

Leoðes Ende

Swa æt ende ealdspræc stilede, 

ongann sunne gesencan niðer, 

ofer eorðan ealle sceadwa 

lange nu lægon. Se leod aras.

Hæleþ of healle ham onetton.

The song ends

So at the end, the old story (or: old speech) fell silent, and the sun began to sink down. Over earth all shadows now lay long. The King arose. The heroes all hurried home from the hall.

La fine del re

Così alla fine, si fece silente l’antico discorso,

il sole iniziò a calare,

sulla terra ogni ombra

giacque lunga. Il re si alzò.

Gli eroi dalla sala si affrettarono a casa.

Il canto ha termine

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Old English Poetic Obsession

Posted: 25 Apr 2019 10:06 PM PDT

Old English poetry is a love it or leave it thing. I've never known anybody to go "it's okay". Some people who learn Old English — for other reasons — just go "meh" or actively hate it. But the people who love it really love it. I wouldn't say it's my favorite literature on earth (that would probably be Classical Persian), but it's definitely up there and there's something about it that makes me keep returning to this tiny handful of poems again and again.

I said tiny handful, and I do mean tiny. There are only about 350 poetic texts that survive from the whole of the Anglo-Saxon period. (Most of what survives is quite dense prose.) Even if some of them are quite long like Beowulf (3180 lines) or Andreas (1720), their number is tiny. I think I've read all of them at one point or another, many of them more than once. (Some of them are honestly pretty mediocre). But it's a strange obsession, and a strange feeling of connection. When I read Latin poetry, I don't suddenly get the urge to compose Vergilian hexameters. But my notes are full of Old English verse composed by yours truly whenever I'm going through one of my OE obsessive periods.

Leoðes Ende

Swa æt ende ealdspræc stilede, 

ongann sunne gesencan niðer, 

ofer eorðan ealle sceadwa 

lange nu lægon. Se leod aras.

Hæleþ of healle ham onetton.

The Song Ends

So at the end, the old story (or: old speech) fell silent, and the sun began to sink down. Over earth all shadows now lay long. The King arose. The heroes all hurried home from the hall.

One thing I've noticed is that other languages don’t have such an enormous gap between their medieval and modern forms as English does. When modern Anglophones read Beowulf or the Exeter book, the English language grows foreign to itself in a very strange way.

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On my first sonne

Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy;

My sinne was too much hope of thee, lov’d boy,

Seven yeeres thou’wert lent to me, and I thee pay,

Exacted by thy fate, on the just day.

O, could I loose all father, now. For why

Will man lament the fate he should envie?

To have so soone scap’d worlds, and fleshes rage,

And, if no other miserie, yet age?

Rest in soft peace, and, ask’d, say: here doth lye

BEN JONSON his best piece of poetrie.

For whose sake, hence-forth, all his vowes be such,

As what he loves may never like too much.

1 Child of my right hand] the Hebrew name "Benjamin" traditionally translates as "Right Hand's Son" i.e. the fortunate side. (The original sense in the Bible was probably "Son of the South").

5 Lose all father] lose all fatherliness.

9-10 doth lie...Ben Jonson his...poetry] Both father and son were named Ben Jonson. The syntax of this sentence is ambiguous to good effect. The beauty is that it is unclear just who is doing the lying, or laying, of what.

12] His vows be that he will too much like anything that he loves

Del mio primogenito

Addio bimbo mio alla mia destra, e gioia;

Peccai di troppe speranze, amato figlio,

tu sette anni fosti a me prestato e ti ripago

esatto il fato, il giorno giusto.

Potessi perdere paternità. Ché mai

lamentare fato da invidiare?

Sfuggito presto ai mondi e in carne furie,

e se non altre miserie, l'età?

Riposi in molle pace, e se richiesto, dì: qui giace

BEN JONSON la migliore sua poesia.

In virtù della quale da ora, siano i suoi voti tali,

che mai piaccia abbastanza quel che ama.

1 Il nome ebraico Beniamino tradotto per tradizione “figlio alla mano destra”, quella preferita. (Il senso originario nella Bibbia era forse “figlio del sud”).

9-10 Padre e figlio erano omonimi. La sintassi di questa frase è felicemente ambigua. La sua bellezza è che resta oscuro chi giace o mente (to lie può essere ambedue) e che cosa.

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To Thaliarchus in winter

ph: TroveRete, Rosmarino gelato

See how Soracte¹ shines in the height of snowfall,　
See how the toiling forests can hardly bear　
　their cold loads, how the streams stand frozen,
　　stilled with sharp ice in bewintering air.
Thaw off this cold. Throw logs on the hearth in warm　
welcome, and be more generous with the pure  　 
　wine drawn from that old Sabine² cask,        
　　dear Thaliarchus, good host and sure 
friend. Let the gods take care of the rest. Once they've　
brought all the winds that brawl on the boiling sea    　  
　to heel, then nothing shakes the ancient
　　alder and beautiful cypress tree.
Ask not of what tomorrow will bring. Each day　
fortune allows you, count as a blessed gain.　
　Young man, enjoy the sweet delights of 
　　loving and dancing. Do not abstain
while your green youth is free of old peevish gray.　　
Now is the time for Campus³ and plaza too,　
　for nights of sighs and whispered nothings    
　　when you and her keep a rendezvous,
Time for the lovely laugh from a secret corner　
giving away the girl where she hides at last,　
　for the love-bracelet from a hand whose
　　fingers pretend to resist your grasp. 

Notes:
1- Mount Soracte, a mountain north of Rome and visible from the city streets.
2 - Sabine wine, originating in an area near Horace's own farm. Not an especially expensive vintage.
3 - "Campus" i.e. the Campus Martius or Field of Mars.

Vidēs ut altā stet nive candidum　
Sōracte, nec iam sustineant onus　
　silvae labōrantēs, gelūque
　　flūmina cōnstiterint acūtō.
Dissolve frīgus, ligna super focō              　
largē repōnēns atque benignius　
　dēprōme quadrīmum Sabīnā,
　　ō Thaliarche, merum diōtā:
permitte dīvīs cētera, quī simul　
strāvēre ventōs aequore fervidō                  　     
　dēproeliantīs, nec cupressī
　　nec veterēs agitantur ōrnī.
Quid sit futūrum crās fuge quaerere et　
quem Fōrs diērum cumque dabit lucrō　
　appōne, nec dulcīs amōrēs                           
　　sperne puer neque tū chorēās,
dōnec virentī cānitiēs abest　
mōrōsa.  Nunc et campus et āreae　
　lēnēsque sub noctem susurrī
　　compositā repetantur hōrā,           
nunc et latentis prōditor intumō　
grātus puellae rīsus ab angulō　
　pignusque dēreptum lacertīs
　　aut digitō male pertinācī.

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Παῦλος ὁ Σιλεντιάριος, Ἐπίγραμμα : Il mio nome è ... (ci importa?) / My name is...(do we care?)

᾽Οὔνομά μοι … «Τί δὲ τοῦτο;» Πατρίς δὲ μοι … «Ἐς τί δὲ τοῦτο;»
Κλεινοῦ δ’ εἰμὶ γένους. «Εἰ γὰρ ἀφαυροτάτου;»
Ζήσας δ’ ἐνδόξως ἔλιπον βίον. «Εἰ γὰρ ἀδόξως;»
Κεῖμαι δ’ ἐνθάδε νῦν. «Τίς τίνι ταῦτα λέγεις;»

Epigramma 

ph: salsel, Ad Asti draghi tosti

Il mio nome è ... (ci importa?) e mio luogo di nascita

fu... (davvero, a chi può importare?) vengo

da nobile lignaggio che posso tracciare

sommo... (e se tutti loro fossero schifezze?)

terminai la vita in buona reputazione (ci fregherebbe

se tu la lasciassi con infamia?)

e ora in morte giaccio sotto questa tomba

(aspetta, chi è che parla veramente? e a chi?)

My name is...(do we care?) And my birthplace
Was....(seriously, who cares at all?) I come
From noble lineage that I can trace
To great...(and what if all of them were scum?)
I ended life in good repute (would we
Care if you quit this world in infamy?)
And now in death I lie beneath this tomb
(Wait...who is speaking, really? And to whom?)




Paulus Silentiarius, Epigramma interruptum
Translated by A.Z. Foreman

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