Both poems by Jean Passerat 1534-1602.
Translated from Middle French by Eli Wallis.
A LA LUNE
Oh fine eye of the night, argent daughter,
Sister of the sun and mother of months,
Oh princess of mountains, rivers and woods,
In whose power all places are vaunted.
As you are, goddess, climbing low heavens,
Where you receive loves’ piteous regrets,
Do tell, horned moon, have you ever seen some
Soul whom in love was this much tormented?
If my dolour comes from your stirring form
You may succor me; in your control are
The feathered dreams of an enchantress troupe.
Choose one from the plenty bad, a lover
In best disguise, and send them sleeping on
Behalf of my pain to my proud mistress.
SUR UN MAI
This May I planted, eye of my effort
Who drives me into such needless trials,
Something of you: I make comparison
Of your fine youth to her fine verdancy.
The oak is a tough tree, just as you are:
You are but deaf wood to my orations:
May serves to adorn the loving season:
Thus does youth, age of such little hardness,
Soon after this May, have its honour dried
To be thrown in flame, beheaded he’ll be:
You may, from this affair, take with you that
If, child, you do not love for atonement,
And so sense that coming of hoariness,
Regret and mourning you’ll stir in his ash.
Eli Wallis spends too much time with Pleiades, and not enough at travincal.
–Art by Sagi Kortler