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Cassandra, Marie and Helen: Memo to Pierre

Ronsard, we don’t deserve this elegant abuse.
The myth that fourteen lines of whining can create!
Don’t tell us it’s just literature: that’s no excuse.
And pay attention while we put the record straight.

We’re sorry that a part of you is fit to burst
because we’re not inclined to tumble into bed
without, at least, a little conversation first,
but there it is. We’ve heard the sales pitch and we’ve read

the catalogue: the fading blossoms, setting suns,
‘I’m going grey, so how about a cuddle?’ Please!
Catullus, Petrarch, you: well-heeled male poet paints

himself as victim; us as basilisks or nuns.
So be advised (and tell the other Pléiades):
the three of us have had enough of your complaints.

See the translations of Ronsard in section 6.