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Sonnets
English, French (translation)
107 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1556
About the author
Louise Labé
93 books23 followersThe precise date of Louise Labé's birth is unknown. She is born somewhere between 1516 (her parents marriage) and 1523 (her mother's death).
Both her father and her stepmother Antoinette Taillard (whom Pierre Charly married following Etiennette Roybet's death in 1523) were illiterate, but Labé received an education in Latin, Italian and music, perhaps in a convent school.
At the siege of Perpignan, or in a tournament there, she is said to have dressed in male clothing and fought on horseback in the ranks of the Dauphin, afterwards Henry II.
Between 1543 and 1545 she married Ennemond Perrin, a ropemaker.
She became active in a circle of Lyonnais poets and humanists grouped around the figure of Maurice Scève. Her Œuvres were printed in 1555, by the renowned Lyonnais printer Jean de Tournes.
In addition to her own writings, the volume contained twenty-four poems in her honor, authored by her male contemporaries and entitled Escriz de divers poetes, a la louenge de Louize Labe Lionnoize.
The authors of these praise poems (not all of whom can be reliably identified) include Maurice Scève, Pontus de Tyard, Claude de Taillemont, Clement Marot, Olivier de Magny, Jean-Antoine de Baif, Mellin de Saint-Gelais, Antoine du Moulin, and Antoine Fumee.
The poet Olivier de Magny, in his Odes of 1559, praised Labé (along with several other women) as his beloved; and from the nineteenth century onward, literary critics speculated that Magny was in fact Labé's lover. However, the male beloved in Labé's poetry is never identified by name, and may well represent a poetic fiction rather than a historical person.
Magny's Odes also contained a poem (A Sire Aymon) that mocked and belittled Labé's husband (who had died by 1557), and by extension Labé herself.
In 1564, the plague broke out in Lyon, taking the lives of some of Labé's friends. In 1565, suffering herself from bad health, she retired to the home of her friend Thomas Fortin, a banker from Florence, who witnessed her will (a document that is extant).
She died in 1566, and was buried on her country property close to Parcieux-en-Dombes, outside Lyon.
[edit:]Debated connection with "la Belle Cordière"
From 1584, the name of Louise Labé became associated with a courtesan called "la Belle Cordière" (first described by Philibert de Vienne in 1547; the association with Labé was solidified by Antoine Du Verdier in 1585).
This courtesan was a colorful and controversial figure during her own lifetime. In 1557 a popular song on the scandalous behavior of La Cordière was published in Lyon, and 1560 Jean Calvin referred to her cross-dressing and called her a plebeia meretrix or common whore.
Debate on whether or not Labé was or was not a courtesan began in the sixteenth century, and has continued up to the present day. However, in recent decades, critics have focused increasing attention on her literary works.
Her Œuvres include two prose works: a feminist preface, urging women to write, that is dedicated to a young noblewoman of Lyon, Clemence de Bourges; and a dramatic allegory in prose entitled Debat de Folie et d'Amour, which draws on Erasmus' Praise of Folly.
Her poetry consists of three elegies in the style of the Heroides of Ovid, and twenty-four sonnets that draw on the traditions of Neoplatonism and Petrarchism.
The Debat, the most popular of her works in the sixteenth century, inspired one of the fables of Jean de la Fontaine and was translated into English by Robert Greene in 1584.
The sonnets, remarkable for their frank eroticism, have been her most famous works following the early modern period, and were translated into German by Rainer Maria Rilke.
Both her father and her stepmother Antoinette Taillard (whom Pierre Charly married following Etiennette Roybet's death in 1523) were illiterate, but Labé received an education in Latin, Italian and music, perhaps in a convent school.
At the siege of Perpignan, or in a tournament there, she is said to have dressed in male clothing and fought on horseback in the ranks of the Dauphin, afterwards Henry II.
Between 1543 and 1545 she married Ennemond Perrin, a ropemaker.
She became active in a circle of Lyonnais poets and humanists grouped around the figure of Maurice Scève. Her Œuvres were printed in 1555, by the renowned Lyonnais printer Jean de Tournes.
In addition to her own writings, the volume contained twenty-four poems in her honor, authored by her male contemporaries and entitled Escriz de divers poetes, a la louenge de Louize Labe Lionnoize.
The authors of these praise poems (not all of whom can be reliably identified) include Maurice Scève, Pontus de Tyard, Claude de Taillemont, Clement Marot, Olivier de Magny, Jean-Antoine de Baif, Mellin de Saint-Gelais, Antoine du Moulin, and Antoine Fumee.
The poet Olivier de Magny, in his Odes of 1559, praised Labé (along with several other women) as his beloved; and from the nineteenth century onward, literary critics speculated that Magny was in fact Labé's lover. However, the male beloved in Labé's poetry is never identified by name, and may well represent a poetic fiction rather than a historical person.
Magny's Odes also contained a poem (A Sire Aymon) that mocked and belittled Labé's husband (who had died by 1557), and by extension Labé herself.
In 1564, the plague broke out in Lyon, taking the lives of some of Labé's friends. In 1565, suffering herself from bad health, she retired to the home of her friend Thomas Fortin, a banker from Florence, who witnessed her will (a document that is extant).
She died in 1566, and was buried on her country property close to Parcieux-en-Dombes, outside Lyon.
[edit:]Debated connection with "la Belle Cordière"
From 1584, the name of Louise Labé became associated with a courtesan called "la Belle Cordière" (first described by Philibert de Vienne in 1547; the association with Labé was solidified by Antoine Du Verdier in 1585).
This courtesan was a colorful and controversial figure during her own lifetime. In 1557 a popular song on the scandalous behavior of La Cordière was published in Lyon, and 1560 Jean Calvin referred to her cross-dressing and called her a plebeia meretrix or common whore.
Debate on whether or not Labé was or was not a courtesan began in the sixteenth century, and has continued up to the present day. However, in recent decades, critics have focused increasing attention on her literary works.
Her Œuvres include two prose works: a feminist preface, urging women to write, that is dedicated to a young noblewoman of Lyon, Clemence de Bourges; and a dramatic allegory in prose entitled Debat de Folie et d'Amour, which draws on Erasmus' Praise of Folly.
Her poetry consists of three elegies in the style of the Heroides of Ovid, and twenty-four sonnets that draw on the traditions of Neoplatonism and Petrarchism.
The Debat, the most popular of her works in the sixteenth century, inspired one of the fables of Jean de la Fontaine and was translated into English by Robert Greene in 1584.
The sonnets, remarkable for their frank eroticism, have been her most famous works following the early modern period, and were translated into German by Rainer Maria Rilke.
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Displaying 1 - 18 of 18 reviews
May 24, 2021
Twee zeer verschillende, doch evenwaardige en hoogstaande vertalingen (door Paul Claes enerzijds en Piet Thomas anderzijds) van deze uitmuntende poëzie!
August 19, 2016
Louise Labé was a French poet from the 1500’s, known as “La Belle Cordière” (the beautiful wife of a rope maker). I wish I could read French, but I read the translations of these short sonnets on this website, which is a lovely story in itself:
https://davidandalicepark.wordpress.com/
I enjoyed them all, but my favorite was Sonnet X(https://davidandalicepark.wordpress.c...), that ends with a very touching metaphor.
https://davidandalicepark.wordpress.com/
I enjoyed them all, but my favorite was Sonnet X(https://davidandalicepark.wordpress.c...), that ends with a very touching metaphor.
May 18, 2025
andere uitgave van m’n favoriete dichtbundel! Deze keer met vertalingen, fantastisch 🤝🏼🤝🏼🤝🏼
February 24, 2024
Ik versta niks
May 1, 2024
Read in French - women are just better.
March 31, 2026
“No wisdom of Ulysses could foresee
The woe and the disquiet that are mine
From looking on that countenance divine.
So full of honour, charm, and dignity.
Two radiant eyes have hurt me grievously,
Wounding my heart. And, Love, the fault is thine;
While thou, the fountain of heart's warmth and wine,
Alone can furnish it the remedy.
O cruel fate that from a Scorpion sting
Requires that I must suffer, and entreat
The animal an antidote to bring!
End this my torment, but extinguish not
The need of love in me, that is so sweet
I could no longer live with love forgot.”
—
“O dark and lovely eyes, O heedless gaze,
O burning sighs, O tears that fall as rain,
O sombre nights awaited all in vain,
O vain return of sun and shining days:
O obstinate desires, O moaning lays,
O wasted time, extravagance of pain,
O deaths that in a thousand traps have lain,
O darker destinies that haunt my ways.
O laugh, O brow, and locks, arms, hands, and fingers:
O sighing lute and viol, song that lingers :
Torches to fire the woman's heart in me!
But when so many firebrands thou dost bear
To set my heart ablaze, it is unfair
That never any spark should fall on thee.”
—
“Clear Venus, roaming in the heavenly plain,
Hear thou my voice that sorrowing shall rise
While yet thy radiance lingers in the skies,
To sing my desolation and my pain.
More quickly shall the tears collect again,
More plentifully drop from wakeful eyes,
When thou art witness of their enterprise,
And hotter shall they on my pillow rain.
So doth the heavy heart in human breast
Fall into love with sleep and gentle rest.
The hours are torment when the sun is bright;
And, worn to breaking when the day is past,
I lay me, weary, on my bed at last,
To cry my heartbreak through the lonely night.”
—
“We see the death of every living thing,
When soul from body leaves in subtle flight:
I am the body, thou, my soul, the light,
The better part. Where art thou loitering?
Leave me not fainting here so long. O bring
Me help before the swift approach of night.
Thy body pines; be mindful of its plight;
Restore the half it loves from wandering.
But see, dear one, that it be gently done,
In love encounters risk is often run.
No rigour must there be nor hint of duty,
But gracious charity will show thee how
In gentleness, to render me thy beauty,
A beauty cruel once but kinder now.”
—
“I live, I die; I am on fire and drown;
I freeze while I am fainting from the heat;
Life is too bitter for me and too sweet:
And all my heavy care with joy is sown.
Out of my very laughter tears are born,
My pain is pleasure : happiness is fleet,
But dreams remain when present joys retreat:
I blossom when I am of bloom forlorn.
And so inconstantly Love leads me on:
When suffering seems more than I can bear,
I find, to my surprise, that pain has gone.
Then when I think it certain I have won
The only happiness for which I care,
He throws me back into my first despair.”
—
“Small gardens filled with beauty, gentle eyes
With tender flowers filled, where lurk the darts
Of Cupid, dangerous to mortal hearts,
So long my glance in wonder on thee lies!
O felon heart that charity denies,
So pitiless the practice of thine arts,
The ardour of a heart tormented starts
A flood of longing tears to sympathize!
And so, mine eyes, 'tis you that have the pleasure
From his receiving such reward of treasure;
While you, my heart, the more they are delighted,
The more you languish in anxiety,
And I cannot be satisfied, you see,
With heart and eyes of me so disunited.”
—
“Lute, my companion in calamity,
A faithful witness to my tears and sighing,
True record of unhappiness supplying,
Thou hast lamented oftentimes with me;
And so much hath my weeping piteously
Distressed thee that, some lovely song designing,
Thou hast refashioned it to a repining,
In sudden haste, to sing in company.
And when I would divert thee from thy will,
Thy silence doth constrain me to be still;
But watching me a-sighing here again,
From my so heavy grieving must thou borrow,
Until I find a beauty in my sorrow,
And hope for a sweet end to a sweet pain.”
—
“If only I might lie upon the breast
Of him for whom I think I must die
Because of loving; if I could deny
The sweet desire to live with him the rest
Of my short days; if to his heart he pressed
Me saying, Dear one, you and I
River and tide and tempest can defy
To part us; let us love then undistressed:
If in my arms I held him close to me,
Binding him fast as ivy binds the tree,
And Death approached with envious caress,
While tenderly my love was kissing me,
Then if my spirit on his lips should flee,
Death would be life fulfilled in happiness.”
—
“As long as I can weep remembering
The happiness of other days with thee,
And sighs and sobbing still may leave to me
My voice, and someone hears me when I sing;
As long as hand upon my lute can bring
Sweet music forth to praise thy quality,
As long as this my spirit still may be
Content in thee alone for everything;
So long I never shall desire to die:
But when I feel mine eyes begin to dry,
My voice unsure and impotent my hand,
My spirit, weary in captivity,
Without a sign of love at its command—
Come Death, cast down thy Shadow over me.”
—
“I flee the town, its temples, everywhere
Enchanted with thy pleading, for I know
Though couldst prevail upon me to bestow
On thee, perforce, all that I deemed most rare.
I cannot picture anything as fair
Without thee: masking, games are empty show;
Till striving this my longing to outgrow,
To find some other thing for which to care,
To be distracted from these love thoughts only,
Through deepest woods I take the path most lonely.
But having wandered endlessly, I see
That if I would be free, for this conversion,
I must be someone else, some other person,
Or dwell a thousand miles away from thee.”
—
“I was foretold I should adore one day
The one whose features were described to me,
And with no other picture, instantly
I recognized him when he crossed my way.
Then, seeing him of Love the sorry prey,
I took compassion on his misery
And forced my nature into sympathy,
Till love as ardent did my heart betray.
Incredible that what was Heaven born
Should thus of growth and favour be forlorn,
But when this darkening of clouds I see,
This horror of the storm and winds in strife,
I think that Hell hath fashioned the decree
That from afar made shipwreck of my life.”
—
“What stature in a man doth breed respect?
What size? And what complexion, dark or fair?
Who hath the eyes to flatter and ensnare?
And what can soonest wound with sure effect?
What song and story should a man select?
Whose singing penetrates in its despair?
And on his lute who plays the sweetest air?
What nature in a man should one elect?
I would not answer you assuredly,
For Love creates a prejudice in me;
But well I know and this I tell you true,
No beauty anywhere nor subtle art
Adorning Nature’s loveliness anew,
Could strengthen the desire within my heart.”
The woe and the disquiet that are mine
From looking on that countenance divine.
So full of honour, charm, and dignity.
Two radiant eyes have hurt me grievously,
Wounding my heart. And, Love, the fault is thine;
While thou, the fountain of heart's warmth and wine,
Alone can furnish it the remedy.
O cruel fate that from a Scorpion sting
Requires that I must suffer, and entreat
The animal an antidote to bring!
End this my torment, but extinguish not
The need of love in me, that is so sweet
I could no longer live with love forgot.”
—
“O dark and lovely eyes, O heedless gaze,
O burning sighs, O tears that fall as rain,
O sombre nights awaited all in vain,
O vain return of sun and shining days:
O obstinate desires, O moaning lays,
O wasted time, extravagance of pain,
O deaths that in a thousand traps have lain,
O darker destinies that haunt my ways.
O laugh, O brow, and locks, arms, hands, and fingers:
O sighing lute and viol, song that lingers :
Torches to fire the woman's heart in me!
But when so many firebrands thou dost bear
To set my heart ablaze, it is unfair
That never any spark should fall on thee.”
—
“Clear Venus, roaming in the heavenly plain,
Hear thou my voice that sorrowing shall rise
While yet thy radiance lingers in the skies,
To sing my desolation and my pain.
More quickly shall the tears collect again,
More plentifully drop from wakeful eyes,
When thou art witness of their enterprise,
And hotter shall they on my pillow rain.
So doth the heavy heart in human breast
Fall into love with sleep and gentle rest.
The hours are torment when the sun is bright;
And, worn to breaking when the day is past,
I lay me, weary, on my bed at last,
To cry my heartbreak through the lonely night.”
—
“We see the death of every living thing,
When soul from body leaves in subtle flight:
I am the body, thou, my soul, the light,
The better part. Where art thou loitering?
Leave me not fainting here so long. O bring
Me help before the swift approach of night.
Thy body pines; be mindful of its plight;
Restore the half it loves from wandering.
But see, dear one, that it be gently done,
In love encounters risk is often run.
No rigour must there be nor hint of duty,
But gracious charity will show thee how
In gentleness, to render me thy beauty,
A beauty cruel once but kinder now.”
—
“I live, I die; I am on fire and drown;
I freeze while I am fainting from the heat;
Life is too bitter for me and too sweet:
And all my heavy care with joy is sown.
Out of my very laughter tears are born,
My pain is pleasure : happiness is fleet,
But dreams remain when present joys retreat:
I blossom when I am of bloom forlorn.
And so inconstantly Love leads me on:
When suffering seems more than I can bear,
I find, to my surprise, that pain has gone.
Then when I think it certain I have won
The only happiness for which I care,
He throws me back into my first despair.”
—
“Small gardens filled with beauty, gentle eyes
With tender flowers filled, where lurk the darts
Of Cupid, dangerous to mortal hearts,
So long my glance in wonder on thee lies!
O felon heart that charity denies,
So pitiless the practice of thine arts,
The ardour of a heart tormented starts
A flood of longing tears to sympathize!
And so, mine eyes, 'tis you that have the pleasure
From his receiving such reward of treasure;
While you, my heart, the more they are delighted,
The more you languish in anxiety,
And I cannot be satisfied, you see,
With heart and eyes of me so disunited.”
—
“Lute, my companion in calamity,
A faithful witness to my tears and sighing,
True record of unhappiness supplying,
Thou hast lamented oftentimes with me;
And so much hath my weeping piteously
Distressed thee that, some lovely song designing,
Thou hast refashioned it to a repining,
In sudden haste, to sing in company.
And when I would divert thee from thy will,
Thy silence doth constrain me to be still;
But watching me a-sighing here again,
From my so heavy grieving must thou borrow,
Until I find a beauty in my sorrow,
And hope for a sweet end to a sweet pain.”
—
“If only I might lie upon the breast
Of him for whom I think I must die
Because of loving; if I could deny
The sweet desire to live with him the rest
Of my short days; if to his heart he pressed
Me saying, Dear one, you and I
River and tide and tempest can defy
To part us; let us love then undistressed:
If in my arms I held him close to me,
Binding him fast as ivy binds the tree,
And Death approached with envious caress,
While tenderly my love was kissing me,
Then if my spirit on his lips should flee,
Death would be life fulfilled in happiness.”
—
“As long as I can weep remembering
The happiness of other days with thee,
And sighs and sobbing still may leave to me
My voice, and someone hears me when I sing;
As long as hand upon my lute can bring
Sweet music forth to praise thy quality,
As long as this my spirit still may be
Content in thee alone for everything;
So long I never shall desire to die:
But when I feel mine eyes begin to dry,
My voice unsure and impotent my hand,
My spirit, weary in captivity,
Without a sign of love at its command—
Come Death, cast down thy Shadow over me.”
—
“I flee the town, its temples, everywhere
Enchanted with thy pleading, for I know
Though couldst prevail upon me to bestow
On thee, perforce, all that I deemed most rare.
I cannot picture anything as fair
Without thee: masking, games are empty show;
Till striving this my longing to outgrow,
To find some other thing for which to care,
To be distracted from these love thoughts only,
Through deepest woods I take the path most lonely.
But having wandered endlessly, I see
That if I would be free, for this conversion,
I must be someone else, some other person,
Or dwell a thousand miles away from thee.”
—
“I was foretold I should adore one day
The one whose features were described to me,
And with no other picture, instantly
I recognized him when he crossed my way.
Then, seeing him of Love the sorry prey,
I took compassion on his misery
And forced my nature into sympathy,
Till love as ardent did my heart betray.
Incredible that what was Heaven born
Should thus of growth and favour be forlorn,
But when this darkening of clouds I see,
This horror of the storm and winds in strife,
I think that Hell hath fashioned the decree
That from afar made shipwreck of my life.”
—
“What stature in a man doth breed respect?
What size? And what complexion, dark or fair?
Who hath the eyes to flatter and ensnare?
And what can soonest wound with sure effect?
What song and story should a man select?
Whose singing penetrates in its despair?
And on his lute who plays the sweetest air?
What nature in a man should one elect?
I would not answer you assuredly,
For Love creates a prejudice in me;
But well I know and this I tell you true,
No beauty anywhere nor subtle art
Adorning Nature’s loveliness anew,
Could strengthen the desire within my heart.”
September 24, 2022
3/5 étoiles
*lu pour l'université*
Une exploration du désirs au féminin
« Et si jamais ma pauvre âme amoureuse
Ne doit avoir de bien en vérité
Faites au moins qu'elle en ait en mensonge. » (sonnet IX)
*lu pour l'université*
Une exploration du désirs au féminin
« Et si jamais ma pauvre âme amoureuse
Ne doit avoir de bien en vérité
Faites au moins qu'elle en ait en mensonge. » (sonnet IX)
May 21, 2021
lecture prepa, intérêt modéré
February 21, 2023
De beaux poèmes. Écriture et langage parfois ancien mais néanmoins compréhensible.
February 3, 2024
My favorite is Sonnet 18. The first time a poet ever made me blush, it was like she injected me with her own feelings and forced me to feel them. I love her for it.
April 16, 2024
Sonnets 1-24
March 15, 2025
yeah she can write.
February 16, 2026
Horny ass 16th century Lyonnaise. Lowkey fire sonnets though
July 9, 2026
Muy lindo, me encantó.
Jamás podrás Petrarca.
Jamás podrás Petrarca.
May 18, 2023
The sonnets are short, nevertheless when read in old French some nuances and figures of speech may be hard to grasp.
It is interesting how Labé's Sonnets on love still echo today.
It is interesting how Labé's Sonnets on love still echo today.
Read
October 14, 2025O long felt desires, O hopes uncertain,
sad sighs, and these customary tears
engendering in me so many rivers,
of which my eyes are source and fountain:
O cruelty, O harshness so inhuman
piteous gaze of those furthest of stars:
O first passion, gone from my heart,
do you seek to increase my pain again?
where are you then, my beloved soul, I sigh
do not leave me spiritless to roam
he being one who scorns both gods and men
yield it a place, grant it a valued home
sad sighs, and these customary tears
engendering in me so many rivers,
of which my eyes are source and fountain:
O cruelty, O harshness so inhuman
piteous gaze of those furthest of stars:
O first passion, gone from my heart,
do you seek to increase my pain again?
where are you then, my beloved soul, I sigh
do not leave me spiritless to roam
he being one who scorns both gods and men
yield it a place, grant it a valued home
October 3, 2009
More satisfying than reading Sceve, unless one enjoys closed, difficult poetry more than direct, expressive poems.
Read
January 7, 2013841.3 L116s 1972
Displaying 1 - 18 of 18 reviews