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Pub. 1538.
Lyrics: Clément Marot
Vous perdez temps de me dire mal d'elle,
Gens qui voulez divertir mon entente;
Plus la blâmes plus je la trouve belle.
S'ébahit-on si tant je m'en contente.
La fleur de sa jeunesse
À votre avis rien n'est ce:
N'est ce rien que ses grâces?
Cessez vos grands audaces
Car mon amour vaincra votre médire,
Tel en médit qui pour soi la désire.
So you guys as want to break up my relationship
Are wasting time dissing her to me;
The more you knock her, the better I rate her.
You'd be gobsmacked how sorted I am.
Her young bloom is the square root
Of bugger-all, according to you:
So her attitude's nothing?
Cut the crap; my love
Will trump your back-biting;
You're only stirring 'cause you fancy her for yourselves.
Vous perdez temps de me dire mal d'elle,
Gens qui voulez divertir mon entente;
Plus la blâmes plus je la trouve belle.
S'ébahit-on si tant je m'en contente.
La fleur de sa jeunesse
À votre avis rien n'est ce:
N'est ce rien que ses grâces?
Cessez vos grands audaces
Car mon amour vaincra votre médire,
Tel en médit qui pour soi la désire.
So you guys as want to break up my relationship
Are wasting time dissing her to me;
The more you knock her, the better I rate her.
You'd be gobsmacked how sorted I am.
Her young bloom is the square root
Of bugger-all, according to you:
So her attitude's nothing?
Cut the crap; my love
Will trump your back-biting;
You're only stirring 'cause you fancy her for yourselves.