Modern English Translation
Madame, you be of all beauty shrine
As far as circled is the mappamund,
For as the crystal glorious you shine,
And like ruby be your cheeks round.
Therewith you be so merry and so jocund,
That at a revel when that I see you dance,
It is an ointment unto my wound,
Though you to me not do no dalliance.
For though I weep of tears full a tyne,
Yet may that woe my heart not confound;
Your seemly voice, that you so small out-twine
Makes my thought in joy and bliss abound.
So courteously I go, with love bound,
That to myself I say, in my penance,
Suffiseth me to love you, Rosamund,
Though you to me not do no dalliance.
No never pike wallowed in galantine
As I in love am wallowed and am wound,
For which full oft I of myself divine
That I am truly Tristan the second.
My love may not refreyd be nor a found
I burn aye in amorous pleasure.
Do what you list, I will your thrall be found,
Though you to me not do no dalliance.
© 2013 Forrest Hainline
Original Text (To Rosemounde: A Balade)
Madame, ye ben of al beaute shryne
As fer as cercled is the mapamounde,
For as the cristal glorious ye shyne,
And lyke ruby ben your chekes rounde.
Therwith ye ben so mery and so jocounde
That at a revel whan that I see you daunce,
It is an oynement unto my wounde,
Thogh ye to me ne do no daliaunce.
For thogh I wepe of teres ful a tyne,
Yet may that wo myn herte nat confounde;
Your semy voys that ye so smal out twyne
Maketh my thoght in joy and blis habounde.
So curtaysly I go with love bounde
That to myself I sey in my penaunce,
"Suffyseth me to love you, Rosemounde,
Thogh ye to me ne do no daliaunce."
Nas neuer pyk walwed in galauntyne
As I in love am walwed and ywounde,
For which ful ofte I of myself devyne
That I am trew Tristam the secounde.
My love may not refreyde nor affounde,
I brenne ay in an amorous plesaunce.
Do what you lyst, I wyl your thral be founde,
Thogh ye to me ne do no daliaunce.
