From Cent BalladesCHRISTINE DE PIZAN (1364–c. 1430) Translated by Maryann Corbett (bio) Ballade XLII As Ovid tells it, when we fall asleepa messenger appears who brings us news.He lulls us, then he lets his secrets seep—joyous or troubling—through our dreams. These cluesare sent us by a god called Morpheus,the sleep-god’s son (or so the fables read)who comes, in shifting shapes, by various ruses,to make things known that people ought to heed. And through the mercy of that god of sleepthe ills I bear are made more light, more loose.He brings me news free of all cause for weeping:news of my love. No other message soothesme so. But when he tells a thing that provesless lovely, then my heart’s a maple seedfluttering, since he utters only truths,making things known that people ought to heed. Some nights, those visits make my pain less deep—that sleep-god’s visits—and I think I’d losemy life if they did not. And yet I keepon weeping, for at times his message movesmy mind with whispers that a different musenow holds my lover—news I fear indeed,for he spares nothing, doesn’t pick and choose,and makes things known that people ought to heed. [End Page 74] Ovide dit qu’il est un messagier,Qui en dormant les nouvelles aporte,Les gens endort, et puis les fait songierDe joye ou dueil, songes de mainte sorte.Morpheüs cil messager on appelle ;Au dieu qui dort est filz, ce dit la fable,Qui en pluseurs formes se renouvelle,Cil nonce aux gens mainte chose notable, Et cellui dieu de someil alegier,Soye mercy, veult le mal que je porte.Car nouvelles m’envoye sanz dongierDe mon ami, autre ne me conforte.Mais quant chose me dit qui ne m’est belle,Mon cuer tremble plus que feuille d’arableCar en nul cas de riens le voir ne celle,Cil nonce aux gens mainte chose notable. Et ma doulour fait moult assouagierLe dieu qui dort, certes je fusse morteSe il ne fust ; mais plorer de legierMe fait souvent, car trop me desconforteQuant il me dit qu’une autre damoiselleTient mon ami, et qu’il soit veritableJ’ay grant paour; car, de toute querelle,Cil nonce aux gens mainte chose notable. [End Page 75] Ballade III In times long past, the citizens of Romekept fine traditions. In that ancient agethis was the custom there: When one of themset out for deeds of arms upon a voyage,if he performed great feats of strength or courageand then returned, victorious, to his own,that man who had so worthily engagedhis foes was honored with the laurel crown. They held that crown a mark of great esteemas earned by the most skillful or most sage.And many (whom just now I need not name)strove mightily in hope of its advantage.The tale is set down clearly on the page:Striking the Africans, Rome brought them down,and so on their return at last from Carthage,those soldiers took the prize: the laurel crown. All that was in the past. And to our shame,in France, we have not copied from their page.The good are not the ones we raise to famebut those with riches or long lineage.On virtue, then, and not on heritagein family names, let us set honors down,for those whose hearts have made the noblest passageare worthy to receive a laurel crown. Before God, Prince, it is a grief, an outrage,that good deeds bring no honor or renownto those we call—no matter in what language—most worthy to receive a laurel crown. [End Page 76] Ou temps jadis, en la cité de Romme,Orent Rommains maint noble et bel usage.Un en y ot : tel fu que quant un hommeEn fais d’armes s’en aloit en voyage,S’il faisoit la aucun beau vasselage,Après, quant ert a Romme retourné,Cellui estoit, pour pris de...