LSA Lute Festival 2008 Concerts

Eve Kopli, soprano & vielle
Eric Mentzel, tenor
Crawford Young, lute

•  Fleurs de vertus, fleur du monde  •
of Proportion, Virtue’s Rhetoric
Texts and Translations

Ballade:  Armes, amours, dames, chevalrie
[Cantus I]
Armes amours dames chevalrie
Clers musicans et fayseurs en francois
Tous sosfistes toute poeterie
Tous cheus qui ont melodieuses vois
Ceus qui cantent en orgues aucunes foys
Et qui ont chier le doulz art de musique
Demenés duel plourés car c’est bien drois
La mort machaut le noble rethouryque.

Weapons, loves, ladies, chivalry,
Clerks, musicians, and writers in French,
All sophists, all poetry,
All those who have melodious voices,
Those who sing to the organ on occasion,
And who hold dear the gentle art of music,
Give way to grief, lament, for it is only right,
The death of Machaut, the noble rhetorician.
Priés por li si que nulls ne l’oublie
Ce vous requiert le bayli de valois
Car il n’en est au jor d’uy nul en vie
Tel com il fu ne ne sera des moys
Complains sera de contes et de roys
Jusqu’a a lonc temps per sa bone practique
Vestés vous noir plorés tous champenois
La mort machaut le noble rethouryque.
Pray for him so that he will never be forgotten,
This asks of you the Bailiff of Valois,
For there is none alive today
Such as he was, nor will there be soon again.
There will be plaints of counts and kings
For many years, for his goodly craft.
Don garments of black, weep all Champenois, for
The death of Machaut, the noble rhetorician.
[Cantus II]
O flour des flours de toute melodie
Tres doulz maistres qui tant fustes adrois
O guillame mondains diex d’armonie
Apres vos fais qui obtiendra le choys
Sur tous fayseurs, certes ne le congnoys
Vo nom sera precieuse relique
Car l’on plourra en france en artois
La mort machaut le noble retorique

O flower of flowers of all melody
Gentle master who was so adroit
O Guillame worldly god of harmony
After your deeds who will win the prize
Over all poets? surely I do not know him.
Your name will be a precious relic
For it will be almented in France and in Artois,
The death of Machaut, the noble rhetorician.
Ploures rubebe viele et ciphonie
Psalterion tous instrumens courtois
Guisternes fleutes herpes chelemie
Traversaynes et vous amples de vois
Timpane ossy metes en uevre doys
Tous instrumens qui estes tout antiques
Faites devoir ploures gentils galoys
La mort machaut le noble retorique.
Weep, rebec, vielle and hurdy-gurdy,
Psaltery, all courtly instruments,
Gitterns, flutes, harps and shawms,
Transverse flutes and you of ample voice,
O tympanum as well, you must set to work,
All instruments of ancient times,
Do your duty, noble Gauls, weep for
The death of Machaut, the noble rhetorician.
Ballade:  S’aincy estoit que ne feust la noblesce
S’aincy estoit que ne feust la noblesce
Du bon Jehan, duc gentilz de Berry,
Ffrance perdroit son pris et la prouesce
Et le monde seroit amenüy.
Quar de certain sa valour
S’estent per tout et luist com le cler jour;
En tous fais son noble cuer habunde:
Quar c’est celi qui est la flour du monde.
If ever it were that the noblesse of good Jean,
chivalrous Duke of Berry, did not exist,
France would lose its value and its pride
and the world would be lessened.
For his valour shines everywhere
and illuminates like the bright light of day.
His noble heart is rich in all things,
for it is he who is the flower of all the world.
Nature l’a per sa grant soubtilesce
De seus dons richement enchievy.
Vaillant et preux, en bien met son adresce
Et noble ator si est prouchain de li
Dont il n’a per ne greygnour,
Ains surmonte tout home par douçor.
Ce sont graces que Dieux en son cuer fonde:
Quar c’est celi qui est la flour du monde.
Nature, with her subtle art,
has endowed him with all of her gifts
Valiant and courageous, he charts the right course;
and in noble deportment,
such that none can equal or surpass him,
thus he exceeds all men by his gentleness.
These are the graces that God pours into his heart,
for it is he who is the flower of all the world.
Ballade:  Pictagoras, Jabol et Orpheüs
Pictagoras, Jabol et Orpheüs
Furent premier pere de melodie;
Selont le scripture, molt pourveüs
Furent de sa douçour et armonie.
Si doivent donqz ceulz qui or sont en vie
Leur science louer et leur mestrie
Pour droit prouver que musique est fontayne
De tout honnour et d’amour souverayne.
Pythagoras, Jubal and Orpheus
were the first fathers of melody,
as the Scripture says; their music was rich
in sweetness and harmony.
Therefore all who live today
should praise their skill and mastery
and rightly show that music is the source
of all honor and of the highest love.
Ballade:  Helas! pitié envers moy dort si fort
Helas! pitié envers moy dort si fort
que je ne sçay se je sui mort ou vis.
Dangier, Refus, Desdaing sont d’un acort.
encontre moy poient me grever toudis.
Se je me plain, je n’ay pas trop mespris.
quant pour fenir m’est rendu tel guerdon.
dont mort me voy sans nulle mesprison.
Alas! Pity reposes so deeply around me
that I don’t know whether I live or am dead.
Depair, rejection and disdain have united
and make my life heavy.
Thus I complain, with justification,
that, in the end this is the reward I receive
I see myself dying, without any fault of mine.
Et puis qu’ainsi ne truis en riens confort
Joie, soulas se sont de moy partis
Et m’ont guerpy dont je rechoy la mort
Sans que jamais en aie nuls respis
Je ne vif pas ainsois pene et languis
Or n’est nul ben qu’en moy prengne seson
Dont mort me voy sans mesprison.
And since nowhere can I find comfort
Pleasure and joy have left
and deserted me, thus I am bequeathed
death without peace.
Such is my suffering, that I do not live.
Nothing good happens to me;
I see myself dead, without fault of mine.
Rondeau:  Va t’en, mon cuer, avec mes yeux
Va t’en, mon cuer, avec mes yeux
Vëoir la beauté angeline
Qui tant est digne et pure et fine
C’onques ne fist plus belle dieux.
Valoir n’en pourras se non mieux
Quant bonne amour a ce t’encline;
Va t’en, mon cuer, [aveuc mes yeux
Vëoir la beauté angéline].
Go my heart, with my eyes,
to see beauty angelic:
that is so worthy, pure and fine,
that God never made finer.
You will never be more
than if you give yourself to this true love.
Go my heart, with my eyes,
to see beauty angelic.
De la servir suy envieux
Toutdis que pense et ymagine
En la douce qui m’enlumiyne
A dire ce mot gracieux:
Va t’en, mon cuer, [aveuc mes yuex
Vëoir la beauté angéline,
Qui tant est digne et pure et fine
C’onques ne fist plus belle Dieux.]
Always I wish to serve her
when I reflect and muse
in the sweetness that inspires me
to say this gentle word:
Go my heart, with my eyes,
to see beauty angelic:
that is so worthy, pure and fine,
that God never made finer.
Ballade:  Angelorum psalat tripudium
Angelorum psalat tripudium
musicorum pandens armoniam
orpheream plectens sinphoniam
procul pellens vanum fastidium
qui operum fuit inicium
delictorum frangens contantiam
duplicatum ostendens animum
pomum prebens cunctis letiferum
Let the angels rejoice with exultation
diffusing the harmony of the musicians
striking the sweet notes of Orpheus
chasing far away conceited pride
which was the beginning of the criminal acts,
namely, to destroy resolution,
revealing a two-sided intention,
offering everyone the fatal apple.
Ista gerit luciferi
que principi sui primo voluit
coequari set tandem corruit
in profundum abissi inferi
This fruit carries out Lucifer’s vices,
who wished to be equal to his highest Prince,
but finally plunged into
the deep abyss of Hell.
Pestifera in qua superbia
ingrata es deo et homini
in retro mordens ut fera pessima
ante blandens ut faus innocui.
Through this plague-bringing pride
unwelcome to God and men,
at the front flattering with innocent mouth,
behind, biting like an evil wild beast.
Chanson:  La belle se siet au piet de la tour
La belle se siet au piet de la tour
qui pleure et souspire et mainne grant dolour
son pere lui demande: Fille qu’avez vous,
volez vous mari ou volez vous seignour?
Je ne veul mari, je ne veul seignour,
Je veulle ien ami qui pourist en la tour.
Et par dieu belle fille a celui faudres vous
car il sera pendu demain au point du jour,
Et pere son le pent enfouyes moi desous
si diront led gens vecy loyaus amours.
The beauty sits at the foot of the tower,
crying and sighing and suffering great pain,
her father asks her, girl, what is wrong with you?
Do you want a husband, or do you want a lord?
I want no husband, I want no lord,
I want my love who rots in the tower.
By God, beautiful girl, you must renounce him,
for tomorrow he will be hanged at dawn.
Father, if he is hanged, bury me underneath,
so that people will say, here are loyal lovers.
Song:  Deo gratias Anglia
Our king went forth to Normandy
With grace and might of chivalry
There God for him wrought marvelously
Wherefore England may call and cry:  Deo gratias!
Deo gratias Anglia redde pro victoria!
He set a siege, the truth to say
To Harfleur town with royal array;
That town he won, and made a fray
That France shall rue til Doomsday.  Deo gratias!
Deo gratias Anglia redde pro victoria!
Then went our king with all his host
Through France, for all the Frenchmen’s boast;
He spared no dread of least nor most
Til he came to Agincourt coast.  Deo gratias!
Deo gratias Anglia redde pro victoria!
There duke and earl, lord and baron
Were taken and slain, and that well soon,
And some were led into London
With joy and mirth and great renown:  Deo gratias!
Deo gratias Anglia redde pro victoria!
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Last updated 18 June AD 2008 – DFH.

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