Bonifacio Calvo:
There is no treasure-trove on earth
Which I would barter for my pain;
I love my grief, but spite and wrath
Run riot in my heart; my brain
Is reeling--and I laugh and cry.
Jubilant and desperate,
Exultant, I bewail my fate.
Quarter! Lady, ere I die.
The earlier troubadours were still ignorant of the later dogma which
made chaste love the sole fountain of virtue and the road to
perfection--the beloved woman can make of her admirer what she wills--a
saint or a sinner.
Thus Guillem of Poitiers says:
Love heals the sick
And a grave does it delve
For the strong; mars the beauty of beauty itself,
Makes a fool of the sage with its magic,
A clown of the courteous knight,
And a king of the lowliest wight.
The equally early Cercamon:
False can I be or true for her,
Sincere or full of lies,
A perfect knight or worthless cur,
Serene or grave, stupid or wise.
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