The God of Love, whose bow was bent
With purpose fell, where'er I went
Pursued my steps, and took his stand
Beneath a fig-tree, close at hand
To where, with arm upraised, I sought
To pluck the Rose whose beauty brought
Me thither; then he took a shaft
And nocking it, with bowman's craft,
Drew the string taut against his ear
With mighty arm, for well that gear
He knows to handle; straightway flew
The shaft therefrom, which right well knew
Its deadly billet; through my heart
Quick pierced the golden-headed dart,
And on my forehead ice-cold sweat
Burst forth, and ne'er can I forget
How 'neath my fur-trimmed doublet spread
Chill shuddering as my life were sped.
Roman de la Rose, v. 1759-1776
(Trans. by F. S. Ellis)
The God of Love, whose bow was bent
With purpose fell, where'er I went
Pursued my steps, and took his stand
Beneath a fig-tree, close at hand
To where, with arm upraised, I sought
To pluck the Rose whose beauty brought
Me thither; then he took a shaft
And nocking it, with bowman's craft,
Drew the string taut against his ear
With mighty arm, for well that gear
He knows to handle; straightway flew
The shaft therefrom, which right well knew
Its deadly billet; through my heart
Quick pierced the golden-headed dart,
And on my forehead ice-cold sweat
Burst forth, and ne'er can I forget
How 'neath my fur-trimmed doublet spread
Chill shuddering as my life were sped.
Roman de la Rose, v. 1759-1776
(Trans. by F. S. Ellis)
