Juan Ruiz: Enxiemplo del ortelano e de la culebra

Juan Ruiz, Arzobispo de Hita (ca.1280-ca.1350). Su Libro de Buen Amor es, para mí, la obra maestra poética de la Edad Media española. Es el libro medieval al que más veces he vuelto. Tiene un vocabulario muy rico, mucho humor, y genio creativo.

Puerta de Santa María, Hita, Guadalajara, España

Esta sección ocupa las estrofas 1348-1354 del libro y está escrita en 'cuaderna vía' o 'tetrástrofo monorrimo': estrofas de cuatro versos de 14 (ó 16) sílabas con la misma rima (AAAA):

Enxiemplo del ortelano e de la culebra 

Era un ortelano bien sinple e sin mal;
en el mes de enero con fuerte tenporal,
andando por su huerta vido so un peral
una culebra chica, medio muerta atal.
 
Con la nief e con el viento e con la elada fri[d]a
estava la culebra de frío amodorrida:
el ome pïadoso, que la vido aterida,
dolióse mucho d'ella, quísole dar la vida.
 
Tomóla en la falda e levóla a su casa,
púsola cabe el fuego, çerca de buena brasa:
abivó la culebra: ante que la él asa,
entró en un forado d'esa cozina rasa.
 
Aqueste ome bueno dávale cadaldía
del pan e de la leche e de quanto él comía:
creció con el grand viçio e con el bien que tenía,
tanto, que sierpe grande a todos paresçía.
 
Venido el estío e la siesta affyncada,
que ya non avíe miedo de viento nin de elada:
salyó de aquel forado sañuda e airada,
començó de enponçoñar con veniño la posada.
 
Díxole el ortelano: «¡Vete de aqueste lugar!
¡Non fagas aquí daño!»—Ella fuese ensañar: 
abraçólo tan fuerte, que l' queríe afogar,
apretándolo mucho cruelmente a silvar.
 
Alégrase el malo en dar por miel venino,
e por fruto dar pena al amigo e vezino,
por pïedat engaño: ¡donde bien le avino!
ansí derechamente a mí de ti me vino.

Rather than a glossary, here we can read Elisha Kent Kane's (1933 edition) masterful and unrivaled translation instead:

The Fable of the Gardener and the Viper

There was a silly gardener once, who being kind and fair,
One January while a storm was shattering the air,
As he was passing through his garden, spied beneath a pear,
A little viper, almost dead, coiled up and trembling there. 

What with the snow and with the wind and with the freezing cold,
A mortal drowsiness upon the little snake took hold.
But being pious and a fool, the gardener made so bold
As to take pity on the snake whose fortunes he controlled.

He kindly wrapped him in his blouse and to his cottage took him,
Then o'er a brazier's glowing coals he vigorously shook him.
The viper came to life before the imbecile could cook him
And slipping through the kitchen floor, most speedily forsook him.

Yet still that pious man each day would minister him food;
Some bread and milk or something from his small subsistence rude,
Until from pampering he grew to such magnitude
He seemed the largest specimen of any serpent's brood.

However soon the summer came, and with it weather hot,
So that the snake no longer feared the wind nor cold a jot,
But full of rage and anger left his cramped-up hiding spot,
And started out to poison all the creatures on the lot.

Thereat the gardener cried aloud, 'Be off, and leave this place!
Don't work your damage here!' Then lo, the viper came apace
And with his coils began to choke the man in his embrace,
And while he crushed him cruelly he hissed into his face.

This paying honey back with poison makes ill creatures glad
For they requite the fruits of love by making others sad,
For piety they give deceit—look what the gardener had!
Your gratitude the serpent's is, for you are just as bad.