Against the Clerics
after “Clergue si fan pastor” by Peire Cardenal (1180-1278)
The priests who claim they shepherd us
are cut-throat killers. When I see
them draped in habit-holiness
I see the old wolf Ysengri
who feared the mastiffs, so he threw
a tricky sheepskin over his head,
and once inside the sheepfold fed
on every lamb he wanted to.
All those who used to rule the world—
emperors, kings, and counts and dukes
and knights and every sort of lord—
have lost their grip, since now it looks
like power is in the grasp of clerks
who lie, betray, and thieve and seize,
and rage at men who will not brook
their doing exactly what they please.
They’ve less worth and more foolishness
the higher up in rank they rise:
more treachery, less love and peace,
less honesty, more blatant lies.
The things I say of wicked priests
were never spoken, never heard
of anyone, since ancient days,
except the enemies of God.
A table in refectory
to me is not a place of honor,
because the greedy friars I see
grab double helpings first at supper.
Boot them! They never serve the poor.
But then, when has a poor rogue sat
next to a rich rogue anywhere?
So I’ll excuse these rogues for that.
No chiefs or sultans rattle them.
Abbots and priors never ride
to war to take the Holy Lands—
that would be work! They strain their pride
to grab at lands right here, and toss
Lord Frederic out of Sicily.
He’ll never again enjoy the place,
they harry him so viciously.
Clerics! Whoever thinks you have
kind hearts has totted up your sum
all wrong and has deceived himself:
I’ve never looked on nastier scum.
***
A Sirventes Against the Sumptuary Laws
attributed to P. Basc, 13th c.
In heavy grief, in deep and grave dismay,
in mourning and in pain, I weep and sigh,
glare at myself and fear my heart will tear.
I'm blinded, seeing what I may not wear:
my rich and royal clothing
worked with the rarest trimming,
my crown with silver chasing,
gold openwork and tracing.
May flames consume their flesh!
The pope blast them to ash,
all those who take our finery away.
I will not keep these laws! Newfangled rules
we're saddled with by lackeys and by fools.
Jacme the king was absent when they made them,
nor was the pope nearby: Let him abate them.
Whoever damned as sin
the robes we're richest in,
now let him groan to hear
each woman vow to wear
no veil at all or wimple
but flowers, pure and simple,
her lover's garland and the summer's jewels.
So when our lord the king shall come again
(from him is all the worth we may attain)
let our sad story bring him to his senses.
Let him revoke the onerous offenses
of stewards who have ripped
buttons from clothes, and stripped
the chains and jewels that dripped
from them. Remove these shames
from persons, bodies, names.
Honor our human frames,
I pray you, glorious king of Aragon.
You gentle goldsmiths—girls and women too—
and jewelers, this is what you need to do:
beseech the pope to excommunicate
the council leaders and the heads of state,
as well as friars minor,
since they propound this error,
and every penance preacher
whose teaching by its nature
shows us his evil will,
all men of every rule
who preach this wretched doctrine till they're blue.
Go now, my song, to Aragon's good king
and to the pope, and tell them everything
that needs to change, since, as I trust God's will,
this law our villain husbands made is vile!.…
If king and pope concur,
I’ll soon be happier.
The girdle I used to tie
can only make me sigh.
I dare not even cinch its bodice-string,
and my camize is heartsore grief to me—
stitched with fine threads of silk embroidery,
jonquil, vermilion, sable, worked together
with strands of white and blue, and gold and silver.
I'd fear to wear it now.
My heart feels split in two.…
I’ll have to drape my back
with ragged burlap sack
if laws must strip us of our luxury.
Clergue si fan pastor
Clergue si fan pastor
E son aucizedor
E par de gran sanctor
Qui los vei revestir
E-m pren a sovenir
Que nEzengris, un dia
Volc ad un parc venir
Mas peis cans que temia
Pel de mouton vestic
Ab que los escarnic
Pouis manget e traic
Tot so que li-abelic.
II. Rei e emperador,
Duc, comte e comtor
E cavalier ab lor
Solon lo mon regir;
Ara vel possezir
A clers la senhoria
ab toire e ab trair
E ab ypocrezia
Ab forsa e ab prezic;
E tenon s’a fastic
Qui tot non lor o gic
E sera, quan que tric.
III. Aissi can son major
Son ab mens de valor
Et ab mais de follor,
Et ab meins de ver dir
Et ab mais de mentir
Et ab merins de paria
Et ab mais de faillir
Et ab meins de clerzia
Dels fals clergues o dic
Que anc hom non auzic
De sai lo tems antic
IV. Can son en refreitor
No m’o tenc ad honor,
C’a la taula aussor
Vei los cussons assir
E premiers s’escaussir
Aujas gran vilania:
Car i auzon venir
Et hom no los en tria.
Pero anc non lai vic
Paubre cusson mendic
Sezen las cusson ric:
D’aitan los vos esdic.
V. Ja non alon paor
Alcais ne Almanzor
Que abat ni prior
Los anon envazir
Ni lor terras sazir,
Que afans lor seria;
Mas sai son en cossir
Del mon consi lor sia
E com en Frederic
Gitesson de l’abric
Pero tais l’aramic
Qui fort no s’en jauzic.
VI. Clergues, qui vos chauzic
Ses fellon cor enic
En son comte faillic,
C’anc peior gent non vic.
***
Ab greu cossire et ab greu marrimen
Ab greu cossire et ab greu marrimen
planh e sospire et ab perilhos turmen,
can me remire ab pane lo cor no.m fen,
ni mos huelhs vire que gart mos vestimens
que son rics e onratz
e ab aur fi frezatz
e d'argen mealhatz
ni regart ma corona
l'apostoli de Roma
volgra fezes cremar
qui nos fay desfrezar.
Sesta costuma ni sest establimen
non tenra gaire, c'an fag novelamen,
car lo rey Iacme no foron a prezen
ni l'apostoli, c'absolva.l sagramen,
car nostres vestirs rics
an nafratz e aunitz;
qi o tractet sia marritz
per que cascuna entenda
que non port vel ni benda
mais garlandas de flors
en estien per amors.
Coras que vegua lo rey nostre senhor
que es semensa de pretz e de valor
per merce.l orebda c'auia nostra clamor
de la offensa que fan sieu rendador
que.ls verstirs an naffratz
e desencadenzatz
e desenbotenatz
per que nostras personas
ne van pur vergonhozas
prec que sian tornatz
per vos, franc rey onratz.
Snhors dauraires e los dauriveliers
donas e donzelas que es de lur mestier,
a l'apostoli mandem un messatgier
que escumenie cosselhs e cosselhiers
e los fraires menors
en son e grans blasmors,
e los prezicadors
e selh de penedensa
ne son en malevolensa
e li autre reglar
c'o solon prezicar.
Vai, sirventesca, al bon rey d'Arago
e a la papa que'l sagramen perdo
car vilanesca an fag, di Dieus be.m do,
e ribaudesca, nostre marir felo...
quar yeu n'era pur gaia,
le sentura m'esclaia
que yeu solia senchar,
lassa! no l'aus portar.
De ma camiza blanc'ai tal pessamen,
que era enzida de seda ricamen,
groga e vermelha e negra eyssamen,
blanca e blava, ab aur et ab argen,
Lassa, no l'aus vestir!
Lo cor me vel partir...
e noe es maravilha,
Senhor, faitz me esclavina
que aitan l'am portar
can vestir ses frezar.