There is a poem in which the Provencals claim the fathership
of the cult of woman; their opponents do not deny it, but add that it
was an invention which "could fill no man's stomach." These words
express the great and insurmountable barrier between pure spiritual love
and pleasure. The Christian dualism: soul-body, spirit-matter, had
invaded the domain of love.
Spontaneous, genuine love, untainted by speculations and metaphysics, is
found in the songs of the earlier troubadours. The greatest among all of
them, Bernart of Ventadour, was the first to praise chaste love. If any
champion of civilisation deserves a monument, it is this poet.
Dead is the man who knows not love,
A sweet tremor in the heart.
Love's rapture fills my heart
With laughter and sighs.
Grief slays me a hundred times,
Joy bids me rise.
Sweet is love's happiness,
Sweeter love's pain.
Joy brings back grief to me,
Grief, joy again.
Guillem Augier Novella expressed the feeling of being "elated with
exaltation and grieved to death" as follows:
Lady, often flow my tears,
Glad songs in my mem'ry ring,
For the love that makes my blood
Dance and sing.
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