Laudator Temporis Acti

Pierre de Ronsard (1524-1585), Odes 2.18 (tr. Malcolm Quainton and Elizabeth Vinestock):

My mind is thoroughly exhausted from too much study of Aratus' Phaenomena; it is time I had some fun, and went out into the fields to play. Good Heavens! Who would want to praise those who, glued to a book, never have any interest in living?

What use to us is studying, except to exhaust us? And to pile care upon care on to us, who will perhaps become, either this morning or this evening, the victim of black Orcus? Orcus who is so pitiless that he does not pardon anyone.

Corydon, go on ahead, find out where good wine is on sale; chill the bottle, look for a shady arbour where I can recline; don't buy me any meat, because, however tasty it may be, I hate meat in Summer.

Buy apricots, melons, artichokes, strawberries, and some cream — that's what I like in Summer, when, beside a stream, I eat to the sound of the water, stretched out on the bank, or in a lonely cave.

Now while I am hale and hearty I want to laugh without stopping, for fear that one of these days illness may say to me, 'I have defeated you now: die, my merry friend, you have lived too long.'

J'ay l'esprit tout ennuyé
D'avoir trop estudié
Les Phenomenes d'Arate:
Il est temps que je m'esbate
Et que j'aille aux champs jouer.
Bons dieux! qui voudroit louer
Ceux qui, collez sur un livre,
N'ont jamais soucy de vivre?

Que nous sert l'estudier,
Sinon de nous ennuyer?
Et soin dessus soin accroistre,
A nous qui serons peut-estre,
Ou ce matin, ou ce soir,
Victime de l'Orque noir,
De l'Orque qui ne pardonne,
Tant il est fier, à personne.

Corydon, marche devant;
Sçache où le bon vin se vend:
Fay refraischir la bouteille,
Cerche une ombrageuse treille
Pour souz elle me coucher.
Ne m'achete point de chair,
Car, tant soit elle friande,
L'Esté je hay la viande.

Achete des abricôs,
Des pompons, des artichôs,
Des fraises et de la crème:
C'est en Esté ce que j'aime,
Quand sur le bord d'un ruisseau
Je les mange au bruit de l'eau,
Estendu sur le rivage
Ou dans un antre sauvage.

Ores que je suis dispos,
Je veux boire sans repos,
De peur que la maladie
Un de ces jours ne me die,
Je t'ay maintenant veincu:
Meurs, galland, c'est trop vescu.