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Guillaume Costeley
(c.1530 - 1606)
Je ne veux plus penser
(A.T.T.B.)
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Je ne veux plus penser
(A.T.T.B.)
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Pub. 1570.
Lyrics: Anon
Je ne veux plus penser que la fureur de Mars,
Ardemment allumée au milieu de la France,
Ait pouvoir déformé de me faire nuisance.
Bien que je m'aventur' au plus fort des hazards,
Car si j'ai soutenu l'effort de vos regards
Pleins de traits, pleins de feus pousses de violence.
Je ne craindrai jamais qu'autre chose m'offense
Et n'aurai plus de peur des plus braves soldats.
Les balles que vos yeux ont tirées dans mon âme
M'ont rempli tout partout de tourments et de flammes
Mais vous m'avez blessé par un si doux effort
Que s'ils sont de tels coups en l'armée ennemie.
Ennemis, tuez moi. Je vous donne ma vie:
Je ne saurais mourir d'une plus douce mort.
I have no wish to dwell further on Mars's fury,
Enthusiastically stoked in the middle of France;
It has a warped ability to cause me harm.
Though I venture through the greatest of dangers,
Since I have suffered the effects of your glances
Filled with character and fire and flashes of anger
I shall never fear that aught else will offend me
Nor shall I dread the bravest of soldiers.
The bullets that your eyes have fired into my soul
Have entirely filled me with agonies and flames.
But you have hurt me with much sweeter a wound
Than any such blows from an hostile army.
Kill me, enemies. I offer you up my life:
I don't know how to die a sweeter death.
Je ne veux plus penser que la fureur de Mars,
Ardemment allumée au milieu de la France,
Ait pouvoir déformé de me faire nuisance.
Bien que je m'aventur' au plus fort des hazards,
Car si j'ai soutenu l'effort de vos regards
Pleins de traits, pleins de feus pousses de violence.
Je ne craindrai jamais qu'autre chose m'offense
Et n'aurai plus de peur des plus braves soldats.
Les balles que vos yeux ont tirées dans mon âme
M'ont rempli tout partout de tourments et de flammes
Mais vous m'avez blessé par un si doux effort
Que s'ils sont de tels coups en l'armée ennemie.
Ennemis, tuez moi. Je vous donne ma vie:
Je ne saurais mourir d'une plus douce mort.
I have no wish to dwell further on Mars's fury,
Enthusiastically stoked in the middle of France;
It has a warped ability to cause me harm.
Though I venture through the greatest of dangers,
Since I have suffered the effects of your glances
Filled with character and fire and flashes of anger
I shall never fear that aught else will offend me
Nor shall I dread the bravest of soldiers.
The bullets that your eyes have fired into my soul
Have entirely filled me with agonies and flames.
But you have hurt me with much sweeter a wound
Than any such blows from an hostile army.
Kill me, enemies. I offer you up my life:
I don't know how to die a sweeter death.