Lady, often flow my tears, Glad songs in my mem'ry ring, For the love that makes my blood Dance and sing. I am yours with heart and soul, If it please you, lady, slay me.... Aimeril de Peguilhan is of opinion that the pain of love is no less sweet than the joy of love: For he who loves with all his heart would fain Be sick with love, such rapture is his pain. And Bernart again: God keep my lady fair from grief and woe, I'm close to her, however far I go; If God will be her shelter and her shield, Then all my heart's desire is fulfilled. And: My mind was erring in a maze, That hour I was no longer I, When in your eyes I met my gaze As in a mirror strange and shy. Oh, mirror sweet, reflecting me, Sighing I fell beneath your spell; I perished in you utterly As did Narcissus in the well. In the same poem he goes on to say that he will ask for no reward, but finally concludes: My fervent kisses her sweet lips should cover, For weeks they'd show the traces of her lover. The German minnesinger, Heinrich of Morungen, called woman "a mirror of all the delights of the world," and sang: Blessed be the tender hour, Blest the time, the precious day, When my brimming heart welled over, When my secret open lay. I was startled with great gladness, And bewildered so with love, I can hardly sing thereof. The sensuous element still dominated Bernart and his contemporaries to some extent. In their poems, all of which are genuine and sincere, the longing for kisses, sometimes for more, is frankly expressed, but the tendency towards the not sensuous and super-sensuous is already apparent. The lover loves one woman only, and would rather love in vain, patiently enduring every pang she causes him, than receive favours from another woman, were she beautiful as Venus her self. Bernart says: My sorrow is a sweet distress To which no alien bliss compares, And if my pain such sweetness bears, How sweet would be my happiness! Elias of Barjols: Full of joy I am and sorrow When I stand before her face. Bonifacio Calvo: There is no treasure-trove on earth Which I would barter for my pain; I love my grief, but spite and wrath Run riot in my heart; my brain Is reeling--and I laugh and cry. Jubilant and desperate, Exultant, I bewail my fate. Quarter! Lady, ere I die. The earlier troubadours were still ignorant of the later dogma which made chaste love the sole fountain of virtue and the road to perfection--the beloved woman can make of her admirer what she wills--a saint or a sinner. Thus Guillem of Poitiers says: Love heals the sick And a grave does it delve For the strong; mars the beauty of beauty itself, Makes a fool of the sage with its magic, A clown of the courteous knight, And a king of the lowliest wight.