Who is Pierre De Ronsard
Pierre de Ronsard (French pronunciation: [pjɛʁ də ʁɔ̃saʁ]; 11 September 1524 – 27 December 1585) was a French poet or, as his own generation in France called him, a "prince of poets".Early life
Pierre de Ronsard was born at the Manoir de la Possonnière, in the village of Couture-sur-Loir, Vendômois (in present-day Loir-et-Cher). Baudouin de Ronsard or Rossart was the founder of the French branch of the house, and made his mark in the early stages of the Hundred Years' War. The poet's father was Louis de Ronsard, and his mother was Jeanne de Chaudrier, of a family both noble and well connected. Pierre was the youngest son. Louis de Ronsard was maître d'hôtel du roi to Francis I, whose captivity after Pavia had just been softened by treaty, and he ha...
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Pierre De Ronsard Poems
- The Rose
See, Mignonne, hath not the Rose,
That this morning did unclose
... - Of His Ladies Old Age
When you are very old, at evening
You'll sit and spin beside the fire, and say,
... - Contre Les Bucherons De La Forest De Gastine
Quiconque aura premier la main embesongnée
A te couper, forest, d'une dure congnée,
Qu'il puisse s'enferrer de son propre baston,
Et sente en l'estomac la faim d'Erisichton,... - His Ladys Death
Twain that were foes, while Mary lived, are fled;
One laurel-crowned abides in heaven, and one
... - J'ai L'esprit Tout Ennuyé
J'ai l'esprit tout ennuyé
D'avoir trop étudié
Les Phénomènes d'Arate ;
Il est temps que je m'ébatte...
Top 10 most used topics by Pierre De Ronsard
Son 47 Point 27 Car 18 Face 12 Rose 11 Long 10 Nature 10 I Love You 8 Love 8 Place 7Pierre De Ronsard Quotes
Comments about Pierre De Ronsard
Quotes_for_____: live now, believe me, wait not till tomorrow; gather the roses of life today. - pierre de ronsardPotcalling: right at top what i think is root stock sucker of pierre de ronsard rather flashy showing
Xzendor7: peonies in a vase by austrian painter hans zatzka (1859 - 1945); also known as p. ronsard, pierre de ronsard, or h. zabateri and...
Ineya18: . substance is immortal, forms alone are perishable. the lord's world is a theater. it has free entrance, and the vault of heaven hangs at the top of the dome. --- pierre de ronsard --- poetry the blue desert by samuel feron
Always0nny: i send you here a wreath of blossoms blown, and woven flowers at sunset gathered, another dawn had seen them ruined, and shed loose leaves upon the grass at random strown. pierre de ronsard
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