Leu chansonetta e’vil by Guirault de Bornelh (1138-1215)
[Ed. note: Emphasis mine.]
A little song, swift and free, is what I should like to compose,
which I’d then send to Dalfi in the Auvergne;
and if, as it goes on its way, it should find my Lord of Eblo,
it may help him understand that saying something obscure
is not all that hard, but with clarity is.
Because I know how to distinguish the basest man from the best,
I do not suffer reproof, nor am I weakened with worry.
But there’s one thing that gets me for I can’t send it away;
it cuts me to the quick when a man neither shines in discourse
for some little while, nor understands when to leave off.
Nor will I humble myself to my Lady so dear;
she’s someone I cannot describe but to say that I’m killed by her love.
Ah, more sorrows assail me;
I do not know how I can quiet them so that now I’m unable to rest;
And now my art is close to being destroyed.