9. Had ick duysend ijsere tongen
Stemme: Est ce Mars le grand Dieu des allarmes, &c.
Had ick duysend ijsere tongen,
Schoon van stof,
Die al te samen queelden en songen,
Tot den lof
Van Diaen, die de Maen
Veer in glans en pracht te boven gaet,
Door haer gelaet,
Schone Vrou, ach! ick sou
U waerdy noch geensins beelden uyt,
Met mijn geluydt.
U hayrtjens krullen krul op krul te samen,
Door malkaer,
Die in glans het geele goud beschamen
Gansch e n gaer.
't Voorhoofd net, braef geset,
Hoogh en breed, so effen door en door
Als blanck Yvoor,
't Welck de tyd, aerdigh myd,
En met rimpels nimmermeer beslaet,
Dat schoon cieraed.
Als twee Starren teyst'ren u ooghjes
O Diaen!
Daer twee wijn-brauwen als bruyne booghjes
Rond om staen,
Door wiens glans, ghy de Mans
Tot het diepste van het harte wond,
En maeckt gesond,
'k Acht de min, woond daer in,
Jae dat selfs Cupido schiet syn schicht
Door u gesicht.
't Roos-roode mondtjen omcingeld met lippen
Van corael,
Daer u den adem soo traegh uyt komt slippen
t'Elcken mael,
Dat het schynd, datse pynd
Om te blyven in het schoon gebouw
Van haer Juffrouw,
En daer niet eer uyt schiet,
Oft sy styght mijn suyvere Godin
Ten neus weer in.
't Halsjen heeft selver Natura doen cieren,
Daer het blauw
Van schoone aderen door komt te swieren
Blanck en flauw,
Of het waer, een pylaer
Van Albaster, Peerl, Yvoor of Snee,
Sacht en gedwee.
Dus besne'en, syn u le'en,
Vol cieraeds, vol alle geestighe'en
Van top tot te'en.
Uit: J.J. Starter,' Friesche Lusthof' (1621) | 9. Tune: Est ce Mars le grand Dieu des allarmes, &c (Is it Mars, the great god of alarm?)
Had I a thousand tongues of metal
Cleaned of dust,
Which all together warbled and sang
In praise of
Diana, who exceeds the Moon
In lustre
And splendour;
Lovely woman, oh! I would
Scarcely begin to show your worth
With my sounds.
Your hair curls, curl on curl together
Through each other;
Their gloss puts yellow gold itself to shame
Wholly and completely.
Your forehead, gallantly set
High and broad, so smooth through and through
As white ivory
Which Time lovingly shuns,
Never touches with wrinkles,
That beautiful jewel.
Your eyes torture like two stars
O Diana!
Two eyebrows like brown bows
Stand round about,
Whose shimmer wounds men
To the depths of their hearts
And heals again.
I think that Love lives there;
Yes, that Cupid himself shoots his arrow-bolt
By the flash of your face.
Your rose-red mouth, encircled by lips
Of coral
Through which your breath so slowly slips
Every time,
So that it seems that it longs
To linger in the lovely frame
Of its mistress;
And that it no sooner leaves
Than that it rises back into my choise goddess
Through her nose.
Nature itself has adorned your neck
With the blue
Of your lovely veins which wind around
White and pale
As if it were a pillar
Of Alabaster, Pearl, Ivory, or Snow;
Soft and docile.
So well-formed is your body,
Full of ornaments and all liveliness
From top to toe.
Translation: Ruth van Baak Griffioen
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