BOOK I.

GALATEA.

What time unto my sad and mournful cry,Unto the ill-tuned music of my lyre,The hill and mead, the plain and stream replyIn bitter echo of my vain desire,Then take thou, wind, that heedless hastenest by,The plaints which from my breast, chilled with love's fire,Issue in my despite, asking in vainSuccour from stream and hill, from mead and plain.The stream is swollen by the tears which flowForth from my wearied eyes: the flowery meadBlooms with the brambles and the thorns that growInto my soul: the lofty hill doth heedNowise my sorrows; and the plain belowOf hearing is awearied: in my needNo solace, e'er so small, to assuage my illI find in stream or plain, in mead or hill.I thought the fire that sets the heart aflame,Lit by the wingèd boy, the cunning net,Within whose mesh he doth the gods entame,The strangling noose, the arrow he doth whetIn frenzied wrath, would wound the peerless dameAs me they wound, who am her slave; and yetNo noose nor fire hath power against a heartThat is of marble made, nor net nor dart.But lo, 'tis I who burn within the blaze,I waste away: before the net unseenI tremble not: my neck I humbly placeWithin the noose; and of his arrow keenI have no fear: thus to this last disgraceHave I been brought—so great my fall has beenThat for my glory and my heart's desireThe dart and net I count, the noose and fire.

What time unto my sad and mournful cry,

Unto the ill-tuned music of my lyre,

The hill and mead, the plain and stream reply

In bitter echo of my vain desire,

Then take thou, wind, that heedless hastenest by,

The plaints which from my breast, chilled with love's fire,

Issue in my despite, asking in vain

Succour from stream and hill, from mead and plain.

The stream is swollen by the tears which flowForth from my wearied eyes: the flowery meadBlooms with the brambles and the thorns that growInto my soul: the lofty hill doth heedNowise my sorrows; and the plain belowOf hearing is awearied: in my needNo solace, e'er so small, to assuage my illI find in stream or plain, in mead or hill.

The stream is swollen by the tears which flow

Forth from my wearied eyes: the flowery mead

Blooms with the brambles and the thorns that grow

Into my soul: the lofty hill doth heed

Nowise my sorrows; and the plain below

Of hearing is awearied: in my need

No solace, e'er so small, to assuage my ill

I find in stream or plain, in mead or hill.

I thought the fire that sets the heart aflame,Lit by the wingèd boy, the cunning net,Within whose mesh he doth the gods entame,The strangling noose, the arrow he doth whetIn frenzied wrath, would wound the peerless dameAs me they wound, who am her slave; and yetNo noose nor fire hath power against a heartThat is of marble made, nor net nor dart.

I thought the fire that sets the heart aflame,

Lit by the wingèd boy, the cunning net,

Within whose mesh he doth the gods entame,

The strangling noose, the arrow he doth whet

In frenzied wrath, would wound the peerless dame

As me they wound, who am her slave; and yet

No noose nor fire hath power against a heart

That is of marble made, nor net nor dart.

But lo, 'tis I who burn within the blaze,I waste away: before the net unseenI tremble not: my neck I humbly placeWithin the noose; and of his arrow keenI have no fear: thus to this last disgraceHave I been brought—so great my fall has beenThat for my glory and my heart's desireThe dart and net I count, the noose and fire.

But lo, 'tis I who burn within the blaze,

I waste away: before the net unseen

I tremble not: my neck I humbly place

Within the noose; and of his arrow keen

I have no fear: thus to this last disgrace

Have I been brought—so great my fall has been

That for my glory and my heart's desire

The dart and net I count, the noose and fire.

Thus on the banks of the Tagus sang Elicio, a shepherd on whom nature had lavished as many gifts as fortune and love hadwithheld; though the course of time, that consumes and renews man's handiwork, had brought him to such a pass, that he counted for happiness the endless misfortunes in which he had found himself, and in which his desire had placed him, for the incomparable beauty of the peerless Galatea, a shepherdess born on those same banks. Although brought up in pastoral and rustic exercises, yet was she of so lofty and excellent an understanding, that gentle ladies, nurtured in royal palaces, and accustomed to the refined manners of the Court, counted themselves happy to approach her in discretion as in beauty, by reason of the many noble gifts with which Heaven had adorned Galatea. She was loved and desired with earnest passion by many shepherds and herdsmen, who tended their herds by the banks of the Tagus: amongst whom the gay Elicio made bold to love her, with a love as pure and honest, as the virtue and modesty of Galatea allowed. It must not be thought of Galatea that she despised Elicio, still less that she loved him: for, at times, almost persuaded, as it were, and overcome by the many services of Elicio, she with some modest favour would raise him to heaven; and, at other times, without taking account of this, she would disdain him in such wise, that the love-sick shepherd scarce knew his lot. The excellencies and virtues of Elicio were not to be despised, nor were the beauty, grace, and goodness of Galatea not to be loved. On the one hand, Galatea did not wholly reject Elicio; on the other, Elicio could not, nor ought he to, nor did he wish to, forget Galatea. It seemed to Galatea, that since Elicio loved her with such regard to her honour, it would be too great an ingratitude not to reward his modest thoughts with some modest favour. Elicio fancied that since Galatea did not disdain his services, his desires would have a happy issue; and, whenever these fancies revived his hope, he found himself so happy and emboldened, that a thousand times he wished to discover to Galatea what he kept concealed with so much difficulty. But Galatea's discretion well knew from the movements of his face what Elicio had in his mind; and she gave such an expression to hers that the words of the love-sick shepherd froze in his mouth, and he rested content with the mere pleasure of that first step: for it seemed to him that he was wronging Galatea's modesty in treating of things that might in some way have the semblance of not being so modest, that modesty itself might take their form. With these up and downs the shepherd passed his life so miserably that, at times, he would have counted as gain the evil of losing her, if only he might not feel the pain which it caused him not to win her. And so one day, having set himself to consider his varied thoughts, in the midst of a delightful meadow, invited by the solitude and by the murmur of a delightful streamlet that ran throughthe plain, he took from his wallet a polished rebeck (singing to the sound of which he was wont to communicate his plaints to Heaven), and with a voice of exceeding beauty sang the following verses:

Amorous fancy, gently rideOn the breeze if thou wouldst showThat I only am thy guide,Lest disdain should bring thee low,Or contentment fill with pride.Do thou choose a mean, if fateGrants thee choice amidst thy plight,Neither seek to flee delightNor yet strive to bar the gate'Gainst the woe of Love's dark night.If it be thy wish that IOf my life the course should run,Take it not in wrath: on highRaise it not, where hope is none,Whence it can but fall to die.If presumption lead astray,And so lofty be thine aim,This at last thy course will stay:—Either thou wilt come to shame,Or my heart thy debts will pay.Born therein, thy sinning layIn thy birth; the guilt was thine,Yet for thee the heart must pay.If to keep thee I design,'Tis in vain, thou fleest away.If thou stayest not thy flight,Wherewith thou dost mount the skies(Should but fate thy fortunes blight)Thou wilt plunge in deep abyssThy repose and my delight.Who to fate, thou mayst declare,Yields himself, does well: his spirit,Spurring on to do and dare,Not as folly but as meritWill be counted everywhere.To aspire so loftily,Yearning thus to reach the goal,Peerless glory 'tis to thee,—All the more when heart and soulDo with the design agree.

Amorous fancy, gently ride

On the breeze if thou wouldst show

That I only am thy guide,

Lest disdain should bring thee low,

Or contentment fill with pride.

Do thou choose a mean, if fate

Grants thee choice amidst thy plight,

Neither seek to flee delight

Nor yet strive to bar the gate

'Gainst the woe of Love's dark night.

If it be thy wish that IOf my life the course should run,Take it not in wrath: on highRaise it not, where hope is none,Whence it can but fall to die.If presumption lead astray,And so lofty be thine aim,This at last thy course will stay:—Either thou wilt come to shame,Or my heart thy debts will pay.

If it be thy wish that I

Of my life the course should run,

Take it not in wrath: on high

Raise it not, where hope is none,

Whence it can but fall to die.

If presumption lead astray,

And so lofty be thine aim,

This at last thy course will stay:—

Either thou wilt come to shame,

Or my heart thy debts will pay.

Born therein, thy sinning layIn thy birth; the guilt was thine,Yet for thee the heart must pay.If to keep thee I design,'Tis in vain, thou fleest away.If thou stayest not thy flight,Wherewith thou dost mount the skies(Should but fate thy fortunes blight)Thou wilt plunge in deep abyssThy repose and my delight.

Born therein, thy sinning lay

In thy birth; the guilt was thine,

Yet for thee the heart must pay.

If to keep thee I design,

'Tis in vain, thou fleest away.

If thou stayest not thy flight,

Wherewith thou dost mount the skies

(Should but fate thy fortunes blight)

Thou wilt plunge in deep abyss

Thy repose and my delight.

Who to fate, thou mayst declare,Yields himself, does well: his spirit,Spurring on to do and dare,Not as folly but as meritWill be counted everywhere.To aspire so loftily,Yearning thus to reach the goal,Peerless glory 'tis to thee,—All the more when heart and soulDo with the design agree.

Who to fate, thou mayst declare,

Yields himself, does well: his spirit,

Spurring on to do and dare,

Not as folly but as merit

Will be counted everywhere.

To aspire so loftily,

Yearning thus to reach the goal,

Peerless glory 'tis to thee,—

All the more when heart and soul

Do with the design agree.

Thee to undeceive I seek,For I understand the meaning:'Tis the humble and the meek,Rather than the overweening,Who of Love's delights can speak.Greater beauty cannot beThan the beauty thou desirest;Thy excuse I fail to see,How it comes that thou aspirestWhere is no equality.Fancy, if it hath desireSomething raised on high to view,Looks and straightway doth retire,So that none may deem it trueThat the gaze doth thus aspire.How much more doth Love ariseIf with confidence unitedWhence it draws its destinies.But if once its hope be blighted,Fading like a cloud it dies.Thou who lookest from afarOn the goal for which thou sighest,Hopeless, yet unto thy starTrue,—if on the way thou diest,Diest knowing not thy care.Naught there is that thou canst gain,For, amidst this amorous strife,Where the cause none may attain,Dying is but honoured life,And its chiefest glory pain.

Thee to undeceive I seek,

For I understand the meaning:

'Tis the humble and the meek,

Rather than the overweening,

Who of Love's delights can speak.

Greater beauty cannot be

Than the beauty thou desirest;

Thy excuse I fail to see,

How it comes that thou aspirest

Where is no equality.

Fancy, if it hath desireSomething raised on high to view,Looks and straightway doth retire,So that none may deem it trueThat the gaze doth thus aspire.How much more doth Love ariseIf with confidence unitedWhence it draws its destinies.But if once its hope be blighted,Fading like a cloud it dies.

Fancy, if it hath desire

Something raised on high to view,

Looks and straightway doth retire,

So that none may deem it true

That the gaze doth thus aspire.

How much more doth Love arise

If with confidence united

Whence it draws its destinies.

But if once its hope be blighted,

Fading like a cloud it dies.

Thou who lookest from afarOn the goal for which thou sighest,Hopeless, yet unto thy starTrue,—if on the way thou diest,Diest knowing not thy care.Naught there is that thou canst gain,For, amidst this amorous strife,Where the cause none may attain,Dying is but honoured life,And its chiefest glory pain.

Thou who lookest from afar

On the goal for which thou sighest,

Hopeless, yet unto thy star

True,—if on the way thou diest,

Diest knowing not thy care.

Naught there is that thou canst gain,

For, amidst this amorous strife,

Where the cause none may attain,

Dying is but honoured life,

And its chiefest glory pain.

The enamoured Elicio would not so soon have ended his agreeable song, had there not sounded on his right hand the voice of Erastro, who with his herd of goats was coming towards the place where he was. Erastro was a rustic herdsman; yet his rustic lot, out in the woods, did not so far prevail with him as to forbid that Gentle Love should take entire possession of his manly breast, making him love more than his life the beauteous Galatea, to whom he did declare his plaints whenever occasion presented itself to him. And though rustic, he was, like a true lover, so discreet in things of love, that whenever he discoursed thereon, it seemed that Love himself revealed them to him, and by his tongue uttered them; yet withal (although they were heard by Galatea), they were held of such account as things of jest are held. To Elicio the rivalry of Erastro did not give pain, for he understood from the mind of Galatea that it inclined her to loftier things—rather did he have pity andenvy for Erastro: pity in seeing that he did indeed love, and that in a quarter where it was impossible to gather the fruit of his desires; envy in that it seemed to him that perhaps his understanding was not such as to give room for his soul to feel the flouts or favours of Galatea in such a way that either the latter should overwhelm him, or the former drive him mad. Erastro came accompanied by his mastiffs, the faithful guardians of the simple sheep, which under their protection were safe from the carnivorous teeth of the hungry wolves; he made sport with them, and called them by their names, giving to each the title that its disposition and spirit deserved. One he would call Lion, another Hawk, one Sturdy and another Spot; and they, as if they were endowed with understanding, came up to him and, by the movement of their heads, expressed the pleasure which they felt athispleasure. In such wise came Erastro to where he was amiably received by Elicio, and even asked, allowing that he had not determined to spend the warm season of the sultry noon-tide in any other place, since that place in which they were was so fitted for it, whether it would be irksome to him to spend it in his company.

'With no one,' replied Erastro, 'could I pass it better than with you, Elicio, unless indeed it were with her who is as stubborn to my entreaties as she has proved herself a very oak to your unending plaints.'

Straightway the twain sat them down on the close-cropped grass, allowing the herd to wander at will, blunting, with teeth that chew the cud, the tender little shoots of the grassy plain. And as Erastro by many plain tokens knew perfectly well that Elicio loved Galatea, and that the merit of Elicio was of greater carat than his own, in token that he recognised this truth, in the midst of his converse, among other discourses addressed to him the following:

'I know not, gay and enamoured Elicio, if the love I have for Galatea has been the cause of giving you pain, and if it has, you must pardon me, for I never thought to offend you, nor of Galatea did I seek aught save to serve her. May evil madness or cruel rot consume and destroy my frisky kids and my tender lambkins! when they leave the teats of their dear mothers, may they not find in the green meadow aught to sustain them save bitter colocynth and poisonous oleander, if I have not striven a thousand times to put her from my memory, and if I have not gone as many times more to the leeches and priests of the place, that they might give me a cure for the anguish I suffer on her account! Some of them bid me take all kinds of love-potions, others tell me to commend myself to God, who cures everything, or that it is all madness. Suffer me, good Elicio, to love her, for you can be sure that if you, with your talents and admirable graces and discourses, do not soften her, I shallscarce be able, with my simple ways, to move her to pity. This favour I beg of you, by what I am indebted to your deserving: for, even if you do not grant it me, it would be as impossible to cease loving her, as to cause these waters to cease from giving moisture, or the sun with his combed tresses from giving us light.'

Elicio could not refrain from laughing at Erastro's discourse, and at the courtesy with which he begged of him permission to love Galatea; and thus he replied to him: 'It does not pain me indeed, Erastro, that you love Galatea; it pains me much to know from her disposition, that your truthful discourses and sincere words will be of little avail with her. May God give you as fair success in your desires as the sincerity of your thoughts deserve! and henceforward cease not on my account to love Galatea; for I am not of so mean a disposition that, if fortune fail me, I rejoice that others should not attain her. But I pray you, by what you owe to the good-will I show you, that you should not deny me your converse and friendship, since of mine you can be as sure as I have declared to you. Let our herds go united, since our thoughts go in unison. You to the sound of your pipe will declare the pleasure or the pain which Galatea's joyous or sorrowful countenance shall cause you, I to the sound of my rebeck, in the silence of the stilly night, or in the heat of the glowing noon-tide, in the cool shade of the green trees by which this bank of ours is made so fair, will help you to carry the heavy load of your trouble, proclaiming mine to Heaven. And in token of our good intent and true friendship, while the shadows of these trees grow longer, and the sun is declining towards the west, let us tune our instruments and make a beginning of the practice which henceforth we are to follow.'

Erastro did not need asking, but with signs of supreme content at seeing himself in such friendship with Elicio, drew forth his pipe, and Elicio his rebeck: and, one beginning, and the other replying, they sang what follows:

ELICIO.

Ungrateful Love, thy servant thou didst placeIn sweet, caressing, peaceful bonds the dayWhen first I saw the golden hair and faceOf that fair sun that dimmed the sun's own ray.Straightway I came to drink with eager gazeLove's cruel bliss, which, like a serpent, layWithin the ruddy tresses; for 'twas thereI saw the sun, amid the clustered hair.

Ungrateful Love, thy servant thou didst place

In sweet, caressing, peaceful bonds the day

When first I saw the golden hair and face

Of that fair sun that dimmed the sun's own ray.

Straightway I came to drink with eager gaze

Love's cruel bliss, which, like a serpent, lay

Within the ruddy tresses; for 'twas there

I saw the sun, amid the clustered hair.

ERASTRO.

I stood amazed, and filled with rapturous flame,Voiceless was I like to a flinty rock,When Galatea's grace and beauty came,In all their loveliness my sight to mock.On my left side stood Love (ah bitter shame!),My love-lorn breast sustained his arrow's shock,A gate was opened in me by his dartWhereby the maid might come and steal my heart.

I stood amazed, and filled with rapturous flame,

Voiceless was I like to a flinty rock,

When Galatea's grace and beauty came,

In all their loveliness my sight to mock.

On my left side stood Love (ah bitter shame!),

My love-lorn breast sustained his arrow's shock,

A gate was opened in me by his dart

Whereby the maid might come and steal my heart.

ELICIO.

His breast, who, wretched, follows in thy train,Love, by what miracle dost open wide?What glory from the wound doth he attain,The wound that thou didst deal him in his side?Whence from the loss thou sendest, comes the gain?And whence the joyous life when thou hast died?The soul that hath endured these at thine handThe cause, but not the ways can understand.

His breast, who, wretched, follows in thy train,

Love, by what miracle dost open wide?

What glory from the wound doth he attain,

The wound that thou didst deal him in his side?

Whence from the loss thou sendest, comes the gain?

And whence the joyous life when thou hast died?

The soul that hath endured these at thine hand

The cause, but not the ways can understand.

ERASTRO.

So many faces in a broken glassAre seen not, nor in glass formed with such art,That if one looks therein, one sees to passA multitude portrayed in every part,As are the cares on cares that spring, alas!From that cruel care, which from my shattered heartGoes not away, though conqueror in the strife,Until it doth depart along with life.

So many faces in a broken glass

Are seen not, nor in glass formed with such art,

That if one looks therein, one sees to pass

A multitude portrayed in every part,

As are the cares on cares that spring, alas!

From that cruel care, which from my shattered heart

Goes not away, though conqueror in the strife,

Until it doth depart along with life.

ELICIO.

The white snow of her cheek, the crimson roseWhich neither summer wastes nor winter's cold,The sun's twain morning-stars, wherein reposeSoft Love doth find, the spot where time untoldShall guard the voice, strong to subdue our woes,As did hell's furies Orpheus' voice of old,The many charms I saw, though blind I ween,Have made me tinder for the fire unseen.

The white snow of her cheek, the crimson rose

Which neither summer wastes nor winter's cold,

The sun's twain morning-stars, wherein repose

Soft Love doth find, the spot where time untold

Shall guard the voice, strong to subdue our woes,

As did hell's furies Orpheus' voice of old,

The many charms I saw, though blind I ween,

Have made me tinder for the fire unseen.

ERASTRO.

Twain apples rosy-red no tree can bearAs those in Galatea's cheeks displayed;Iris herself could boast no bow so fairAs the twain archèd eye-brows of the maid,Two rays of light, two threads, beyond compare,Of pearls 'twixt scarlet:—and if more be said—The peerless graces which in her I findA cloud have made me to the amorous wind.

Twain apples rosy-red no tree can bear

As those in Galatea's cheeks displayed;

Iris herself could boast no bow so fair

As the twain archèd eye-brows of the maid,

Two rays of light, two threads, beyond compare,

Of pearls 'twixt scarlet:—and if more be said—

The peerless graces which in her I find

A cloud have made me to the amorous wind.

ELICIO.

I burn nor am consumed, I live and die,Far from myself am I and yet so near,I sink to hell, I rise to Heaven on high,One thing alone I hope, and yet I fear.Gentle, yet fierce—for what I loathe I sigh,To love thee racks my soul with torment drear,Thus step by step already am I come,Drawn in these different ways to my last doom.

I burn nor am consumed, I live and die,

Far from myself am I and yet so near,

I sink to hell, I rise to Heaven on high,

One thing alone I hope, and yet I fear.

Gentle, yet fierce—for what I loathe I sigh,

To love thee racks my soul with torment drear,

Thus step by step already am I come,

Drawn in these different ways to my last doom.

ERASTRO.

Elicio, mark! how gladly would I pourAt Galatea's feet all that she hath leftTo me in life, if but she would restoreThe heart and soul whereof I am bereft.My herd I would bestow, and furthermoreMy Spot and Hawk, if she would but the theftForego: but ah! the goddess on her throneMore than aught else would have my soul alone.

Elicio, mark! how gladly would I pour

At Galatea's feet all that she hath left

To me in life, if but she would restore

The heart and soul whereof I am bereft.

My herd I would bestow, and furthermore

My Spot and Hawk, if she would but the theft

Forego: but ah! the goddess on her throne

More than aught else would have my soul alone.

ELICIO.

Erastro, mark! if once the heart on highBe placed by fate, or chance, or what you will,To pluck it down 'twere foolishness to tryBy force, or art, or any human skill.Rejoice that she is blessed; though thou canst dieIn truth without her, 'tis my thought that stillNo life on earth can be more full of blissThan death for such a noble cause as this.

Erastro, mark! if once the heart on high

Be placed by fate, or chance, or what you will,

To pluck it down 'twere foolishness to try

By force, or art, or any human skill.

Rejoice that she is blessed; though thou canst die

In truth without her, 'tis my thought that still

No life on earth can be more full of bliss

Than death for such a noble cause as this.

Erastro was already setting himself to follow on in his song when they perceived, by a thickly wooded hillock which was at their back, no slight clamour and sound; and, both rising to their feet to see what it was, they saw a shepherd descending from the mountain, running at the greatest speed in the world, with a naked knife in his hand, and the hue of his countenance changed, and, coming after him, another shepherd swift of foot, who in a few strides overtook the first, and seizing him by the collar of his skin-coat, raised his arm in the air as high as he could, and a sharp dagger which he carried unsheathed, and buried it twice in his body, saying:

'Receive, oh ill-starred Leonida, the life of this traitor, which I offer up in vengeance of your death.'

This happened with such rapidity that Elicio and Erastro had not the opportunity to stop him; for they came up at the time when the stricken shepherd was already giving out his last breath, struggling to utter these few ill-formed words:

'Would that you had allowed me, Lisandro, to satisfy Heaven with a longer repentance for the wrong I did you, and had then taken from me the life which, for the reason I have said, now departs from this flesh ill-content.'

And without being able to say more he closed his eyes in everlasting night. By these words Elicio and Erastro fancied that for no small cause had the other shepherd inflicted on him so cruel and violent a death. And the better to inform themselves of the whole occurrence, they would fain have inquired of the murderous shepherd; but he, with retreating step, leaving the shepherd dead and the two wondering, turned to go back into the hillock beyond. And when Elicio desired to follow him, and to learn from him what hewished, they saw him come again out of the wood, and, being a good space distant from them, in a loud voice he said to them:

'Pardon me, gentle shepherds, if I have not been gentle in having wrought in your presence that which you have seen, for the just and mortal rage which I had conceived against that traitor did not permit a more moderate course on my part. What I counsel you is, that, if you would not anger the Deity that dwells in high Heaven, you should not offer the last rites and accustomed prayers for the traitorous soul of that body which you have before you, nor give it burial, if here in your country it is not the custom to give it to traitors.'

And, saying this, he turned with all speed to go into the forest, with so much haste as to take away from Elicio the hope of overtaking him, even though he followed him. And so the twain with tender hearts turned to perform the pious office, and to give burial, as best they could, to the wretched body, which had so suddenly ended the course of its short days. Erastro went to his hut which was not far away, and, bringing sufficient implements, made a grave at the very spot where the body was; and, bidding it the last farewell, they placed it therein. Not without compassion for his hapless lot they returned to their herds, and, collecting them again with some haste (for the sun was already entering with all speed by the gates of the west), betook themselves to their accustomed shelters, where neither the comfort they felt therein, nor the little that his cares allowed him, could keep Elicio from wondering what causes had moved the two shepherds to come to so desperate a pass; and already he regretted that he had not followed the murderous shepherd, and learnt from him, if possible, what he wished. With this thought, and with the many that his love caused in him, after leaving his herd in a place of safety, he went out from his hut, as was his wont at other times, and by the light of the beauteous Diana, who showed herself resplendent in the sky, he entered the denseness of a dense wood beyond, seeking some solitary spot where, in the silence of the night, with greater peace he might give rein to his amorous fancies: for it is an assured fact that, to sad, fanciful hearts, there is no greater joy than solitude, the awakener of sad or happy memories. And thus going little by little, enjoying a gentle breeze which blew against his face, full of most delicate scents, which from the scented flowers wherewith the green earth was heaped it gently stole, as it passed through them wrapped in the delicate air, he heard a voice as of one who grievously complained, and checking for a while his breath within him, so that the sound might not hinder him from hearing what it was, he perceived that from some thickset bramble bushes, a little way off, the mournful voice proceeded, and though interrupted by endless sighs, he understood that it uttered these sad words:

'Cowardly and craven arm, mortal enemy of that which you owe to yourself, look, naught now remains on which to take vengeance, save yourself! What does it profit you to prolong the life I hold in so great abhorrence? If you think that our ill is of those that time is wont to heal, you live deceived, for there is nothing more remote from cure than our misfortune: seeing that she who might have made mine pleasant, had a life so short that, in the green years of her joyous youth, she offered it to the blood-thirsty knife, that it might take it from her, through the treason of the wicked Carino. He to-day, by losing his own, will have in part appeased that blessed soul of Leonida, if, in the heavenly region where she dwells, she can cherish desire for any vengeance. Ah, Carino, Carino! I beseech the high Heavens, if by them just prayers are heard, not to heed the plea, if any you offer, for the treachery you have done me, and to suffer that your body may lack burial, even as your soul lacked mercy. And you, fair and hapless Leonida, receive, in token of the love I bore you in life, the tears I shed at your death; and put it not down to lack of feeling that I do not end my life, with all I feel at your death: for a grief that should end so soon would be a scant return for what I ought and wish to feel. You will see, if you take account of things here, how this wretched body will one day be consumed by grief, little by little, for its greater grief and suffering: even as powder, moist and kindled, which, without making a noise, or raising a flame on high, is consumed in itself, without leaving of itself aught save the traces of consumed ashes. It grieves me as much as it can grieve me, oh soul of my soul, seeing that I could not enjoy you in life, that in death I cannot perform for you the last rites and honours which befitted your goodness and virtue; but I promise to you, and swear, for the short time—and it will be very short—that this impassioned soul of mine shall rule the heavy burden of this wretched body, and my weary voice have breath to form it, not to treat aught else in my sad and bitter songs save your praises and deserts.'

At this point the voice ceased, from the sound of which Elicio clearly perceived that it was the murderous shepherd; whereat he was much rejoiced, because it seemed to him that he was in a position to learn from him what he desired. And, wishing to approach more closely, he needs must stop again, for it seemed to him that the shepherd was tuning a rebeck, and he wished first to hear if he should say anything to its sound. And he did not wait long before he heard him, with gentle and tuneful voice, singing after this wise:

LISANDRO.

Blest soul, that from the veilOf human life belowFree to the realms above didst, deathless, wing,Leaving as in a jailOf misery and woeThis life of mine which yet to thee did cling!The bright light of the spring,When thou art gone is dead,And beaten to the groundThe hope I thought to foundOn that firm seat where joy its radiance shed.Alas! when thou wert gone,My life died too: naught lived save grief alone.Death claimed thee for his prey,He revelled in his prize,Thy loveliness beyond compare he marred;He came to take awayThe light of these mine eyesWhich gazed on thee and did their riches hoard.Swiftly beneath his sword,Like wax in summer's sunOr cloud before the wind,The fancies of my mindWhich sprang from glorious Love have been undone.The stone above thy tombShuts in my fortune and declares my doom.How could thy brother speedHis cruel, ruthless handIn hot revengeful purpose 'gainst thy heart?How came the wicked deedTo tear thee from the landAnd set thee from thy mortal veil apart?Why sought he with his dartTwo lovers thus to sever?Our love had had no end,Our pathway would we wendIn holy wedlock hand in hand for ever.Command why didst thou give,Cruel, scornful hand! that dying I should live?My hapless soul shall spendThe days, the months, the years,In sad laments that ne'er shall reach their close.'Midst joys that have no endThy soul shall know no fearsOf stubborn time—forgot for aye thy woes;Secure in thy repose,The bliss thou shalt beholdThat thy good life hath wonWhich ne'er shall be undone:Him that so loved thee in remembrance hold,If unto thee be givenTo keep remembrance of the earth in Heaven.Blest, lovely soul above!How foolish have I beenTo ask that thou shouldst mind thee of thy swain;Who gave thee all his love.Eternally, I ween,Shall I, if thou art kind, thus feel my pain.'Twere better for my gainThat I should be forgot,That woe should waste awayThe life that yet doth stay,That I should perish 'neath my cruel lot,Since in my bitter griefDeath's ill I count not ill, but sweet relief.Amidst the holy choir,Amongst the sainted dead,Dear soul! enjoy the wealth of Heaven's delight,That fears nor time nor fire;The mercies that are shedOn all who flee not from the path of right.I hope to reach that height,To dwell with thee in bliss,Amidst eternal spring,If to thy steps I clingAnd know no dread nor yet the pathway miss.Oh lead me to this goal!For such a deed as this befits thy soul.And then, blest souls that dwell in Heaven, beholdThe good that I desire,Enlarge the wings of this my good desire.

Blest soul, that from the veil

Of human life below

Free to the realms above didst, deathless, wing,

Leaving as in a jail

Of misery and woe

This life of mine which yet to thee did cling!

The bright light of the spring,

When thou art gone is dead,

And beaten to the ground

The hope I thought to found

On that firm seat where joy its radiance shed.

Alas! when thou wert gone,

My life died too: naught lived save grief alone.

Death claimed thee for his prey,He revelled in his prize,Thy loveliness beyond compare he marred;He came to take awayThe light of these mine eyesWhich gazed on thee and did their riches hoard.Swiftly beneath his sword,Like wax in summer's sunOr cloud before the wind,The fancies of my mindWhich sprang from glorious Love have been undone.The stone above thy tombShuts in my fortune and declares my doom.

Death claimed thee for his prey,

He revelled in his prize,

Thy loveliness beyond compare he marred;

He came to take away

The light of these mine eyes

Which gazed on thee and did their riches hoard.

Swiftly beneath his sword,

Like wax in summer's sun

Or cloud before the wind,

The fancies of my mind

Which sprang from glorious Love have been undone.

The stone above thy tomb

Shuts in my fortune and declares my doom.

How could thy brother speedHis cruel, ruthless handIn hot revengeful purpose 'gainst thy heart?How came the wicked deedTo tear thee from the landAnd set thee from thy mortal veil apart?Why sought he with his dartTwo lovers thus to sever?Our love had had no end,Our pathway would we wendIn holy wedlock hand in hand for ever.Command why didst thou give,Cruel, scornful hand! that dying I should live?

How could thy brother speed

His cruel, ruthless hand

In hot revengeful purpose 'gainst thy heart?

How came the wicked deed

To tear thee from the land

And set thee from thy mortal veil apart?

Why sought he with his dart

Two lovers thus to sever?

Our love had had no end,

Our pathway would we wend

In holy wedlock hand in hand for ever.

Command why didst thou give,

Cruel, scornful hand! that dying I should live?

My hapless soul shall spendThe days, the months, the years,In sad laments that ne'er shall reach their close.'Midst joys that have no endThy soul shall know no fearsOf stubborn time—forgot for aye thy woes;Secure in thy repose,The bliss thou shalt beholdThat thy good life hath wonWhich ne'er shall be undone:Him that so loved thee in remembrance hold,If unto thee be givenTo keep remembrance of the earth in Heaven.

My hapless soul shall spend

The days, the months, the years,

In sad laments that ne'er shall reach their close.

'Midst joys that have no end

Thy soul shall know no fears

Of stubborn time—forgot for aye thy woes;

Secure in thy repose,

The bliss thou shalt behold

That thy good life hath won

Which ne'er shall be undone:

Him that so loved thee in remembrance hold,

If unto thee be given

To keep remembrance of the earth in Heaven.

Blest, lovely soul above!How foolish have I beenTo ask that thou shouldst mind thee of thy swain;Who gave thee all his love.Eternally, I ween,Shall I, if thou art kind, thus feel my pain.'Twere better for my gainThat I should be forgot,That woe should waste awayThe life that yet doth stay,That I should perish 'neath my cruel lot,Since in my bitter griefDeath's ill I count not ill, but sweet relief.

Blest, lovely soul above!

How foolish have I been

To ask that thou shouldst mind thee of thy swain;

Who gave thee all his love.

Eternally, I ween,

Shall I, if thou art kind, thus feel my pain.

'Twere better for my gain

That I should be forgot,

That woe should waste away

The life that yet doth stay,

That I should perish 'neath my cruel lot,

Since in my bitter grief

Death's ill I count not ill, but sweet relief.

Amidst the holy choir,Amongst the sainted dead,Dear soul! enjoy the wealth of Heaven's delight,That fears nor time nor fire;The mercies that are shedOn all who flee not from the path of right.I hope to reach that height,To dwell with thee in bliss,Amidst eternal spring,If to thy steps I clingAnd know no dread nor yet the pathway miss.Oh lead me to this goal!For such a deed as this befits thy soul.

Amidst the holy choir,

Amongst the sainted dead,

Dear soul! enjoy the wealth of Heaven's delight,

That fears nor time nor fire;

The mercies that are shed

On all who flee not from the path of right.

I hope to reach that height,

To dwell with thee in bliss,

Amidst eternal spring,

If to thy steps I cling

And know no dread nor yet the pathway miss.

Oh lead me to this goal!

For such a deed as this befits thy soul.

And then, blest souls that dwell in Heaven, beholdThe good that I desire,Enlarge the wings of this my good desire.

And then, blest souls that dwell in Heaven, behold

The good that I desire,

Enlarge the wings of this my good desire.

Here ceased the voice, but not the sighs of the hapless swain who had sung, and both served to increase in Elicio the desire to know who he was. And bursting through the thorny brambles so as to reach more quickly the spot whence the voice proceeded, he came to a little meadow which, in the fashion of a theatre, was girt all round with very dense and tangled shrubs; and there he saw a shepherd who was standing in an attitude of great vigour, with his right foot advanced and his left behind, his right arm raised in the manner of one hoping to make a mighty throw. And such was the truth, for at the noise which Elicio had made in bursting through the bushes, he,thinking it was some wild beast (against which the woodland shepherds were forced to defend themselves), had placed himself in a position to hurl at him a weighty stone he was holding in his hand. Elicio, perceiving his intent by his posture, before he could accomplish it, said to him: 'Calm your bosom, hapless shepherd, for he who comes hither, brings a bosom ready for all you might ask of it; desire to learn your fortune has made him break in upon your tears, and disturb the solace which might attend upon you in solitude.'

With these gentle and courteous words of Elicio the shepherd was calmed, and with no less gentleness replied to him, saying: 'I gratefully acknowledge your kind offer, whoever you be, courteous shepherd; but, as for fortune, if you desire to learn mine who never had any, you will scarce be able to have your wish.' 'You speak true,' answered Elicio, 'since from the words and plaints I this night have heard from you, you clearly show the little or none that you have. But you will no less satisfy my desire by telling me your troubles than by making known to me your joys. May fortune give you these in what you desire, so that you do not deny me what I beg of you, if indeed your not knowing me do not prevent it; although I would have you know, so as to reassure and move you, that I have not a soul so happy as not to feel as much as it should the miseries you would recount to me. This I tell you, for I know that nothing is more wasted, nay thrown away, than for an unhappy man to recount his woes to one whose heart is brimful with joys.' 'Your kindly words,' answered the shepherd, 'compel me to satisfy you in what you ask me, not only that you may not fancy that from a mean and craven soul spring the complaints and lamentations you say you have heard from me, but also that you may realise that the feeling I show is but small as compared with the cause I have for showing it.'

Elicio thanked him heartily, and after some more courteous words had passed between the two, Elicio giving proof that he was a true friend of the woodland shepherd, the latter, recognising that they were not feigned promises, granted in the end what Elicio asked. The twain sate them down on the green grass, covered with the splendour of the fair Diana, who could that night rival her brother in brightness, and the woodland shepherd, with tokens of a tender grief, began to speak in this wise:

'On the banks of the Betis, a stream exceeding rich in waters, which enriches great Vandalia, was born Lisandro (for that is my luckless name), and of parents so noble that I would to Almighty God I had been begotten in a lowlier station; for ofttimes nobility of lineage lends wings and strength to the soul to raise the eyes to where a humble lot would never dare to raise them, and from such boldness calamities are often wont tospring such as you shall hear from me, if with attention you will listen to me. In my village was also born a shepherdess, whose name was Leonida, the sum of all the beauty which, as I fancy, could be found in a great part of the world,—born of parents no less noble and wealthy than her beauty and virtue deserved. Whence it came to pass that, the parents of both being among the chief people of the place, and the rule and government of the village being vested in them, envy, the deadly enemy of a peaceful life, brought about strife and mortal discord between them over some differences concerning the administration of the village, in such a manner that the village was divided into two factions; the one followed that of my parents, the other that of Leonida's, with so deep-rooted a hatred and malice that no human effort has been able to bring about peace between them. Fate then decreed, as though to shut out every prospect of friendship, that I should fall in love with the fair Leonida, daughter of Parmindro, the head of the opposite faction; and my love was, indeed, so great that, though I strove in countless ways to put it from my heart, they all ended in my remaining yet more vanquished and enslaved. Before me rose a mountain of difficulties, which hindered me from gaining the end of my desire, such as Leonida's great worth, the inveterate enmity of our parents, the few or no occasions which presented themselves to me for disclosing my thoughts to her: and yet, whenever I turned the eyes of fancy towards the rare beauty of Leonida, every difficulty was made smooth, so that it seemed to me a little thing to break through sharp points of adamant, that I might reach the goal of my loving and honourable thoughts. Having then for many days battled with myself, to see if I could turn my soul from a design so arduous, and seeing that it was impossible, I set all my skill on considering how I might give Leonida to understand the secret love in my breast. And even as, in any matter, the beginnings are always difficult, so in those that relate to love they are for the most exceedingly difficult, until Love himself, when he wishes to show himself favourable, opens the gates of the remedy, where they seem most closely barred. Thus it appeared in my case, for my thought being guided by his, I came to fancy that no better means presented themselves to my desire than to make friends with the parents of Silvia, a shepherdess who was a bosom friend of Leonida, and often they visited each other at their houses, in company with their parents. Silvia had a kinsman called Carino, a very close companion of Crisalvo, fair Leonida's brother, whose boldness and harshness of manner had gained him the nickname of cruel, and so, by all those who knew him, he was generally called cruel Crisalvo; and in the same way they called Carino, Silvia's kinsman and Crisalvo's companion, the cunning Carino, from his being officious and sharp-witted.With him and with Silvia (for it seemed to serve my purpose) by means of many presents and gifts I forged a friendship, to outward seeming: at least on Silvia's side it was stronger than I desired, for the presents and favours, which with pure heart she bestowed on me, constrained by my unceasing services, were by my fortune taken as instruments to place me in the misery where now I see myself. Silvia was passing fair, and adorned with graces so many that the hardness of Crisalvo's savage heart was moved to love her (but this I did not learn save to my hurt); and many days later, after that from long experience I was sure of Silvia's good-will, an opportunity offering itself one day, in the tenderest words I could, I disclosed to her the wound in my stricken breast, telling her that, though it was so deep and dangerous, I did not feel it so much, only because I thought that in her solicitude lay its cure. I informed her, too, of the honourable goal to which my thoughts were tending, which was to unite myself in lawful wedlock with the beauteous Leonida; and that, since it was a cause so just and good, she must not disdain to take it under her care. Finally, not to weary you, love furnished me with such words to say to her, that she, being overcome by them and more by the pain which she, like a clever woman, recognised from the signs of my face as dwelling in my soul, determined to take charge of my cure, and to tell Leonida what I felt for her, promising to do for me all that her power and skill might achieve, even though such an undertaking was fraught with difficulties for her, by reason of the great enmity she knew to exist between our parents; though, on the other hand she thought that it might put an end to their differences, if Leonida were to marry me. Moved then by this good intention, and softened by the tears I shed, as I have said before, she dared to intercede on behalf of my happiness, and, discussing with herself how she would approach Leonida, she made me write her a letter, which she offered to give her at the moment she thought fitting. Her counsel seemed to be for my good, and that same day I sent her a letter, which I have always known by heart, as having been the beginning of the happiness I felt at the reply to it, though it would be better not to remember happy things at a time so sad as that in which I now find myself. Silvia received the letter, and awaited the opportunity for placing it in Leonida's hands.'

'Nay,' said Elicio, interrupting Lisandro's discourse, 'it is not right that you should fail to repeat to me the letter you sent to Leonida, for, seeing that it was the first, and that you were so deeply in love at that time, it must undoubtedly be eloquent. And since you have told me that you know it by heart, and of the pleasure you obtained from it, do not now withhold it from me by not repeating it.'

'You say well, my friend,' replied Lisandro, 'for I was then as deeply in love and timid as now I am unhappy and despairing; and, on that account, it seems to me that I did not succeed in uttering any eloquent words, though it was sufficient success that Leonida should believe those which were in the letter. Since you wish so much to hear them, it ran as follows:

LISANDRO TOLEONIDA.

"So long as I have been able (though with very great grief to myself) to resist with my own strength the amorous flame which for you, fair Leonida, consumes me, fearful of the exalted worth which I recognise in you, I have never had the boldness to discover to you the love I bear you; but now that the virtue, which up till now has made me strong, is consumed, it has become necessary for me to disclose the wound in my breast, and thus, by writing to you, to make trial of the first and last remedy in your power. What the first may be, you know, and to be the last is in your hand, from which I hope for the pity that your beauty promises, and my honourable desires merit. What they are, and the goal to which they tend, you shall learn from Silvia, who will give you this: and since she has been so bold, being who she is, as to bring it to you, know that they are as honourable as is due to your merit".'

The words of this letter did not seem bad to Elicio, and Lisandro, continuing the story of his love, said:

'Many days did not pass before this letter came into the fair hands of Leonida, by means of the kindly hands of Silvia, my true friend. In giving it, she told her such things that she largely assuaged the rage and emotion which Leonida had felt at my letter, such as telling her how good it would be if through our marriage the enmity of our parents were to cease, and that an object so well meant should lead her not to reject my desires; all the more as it should not be compatible with her beauty to allow one who loved her as much as I to die, without more consideration; adding to these other reasonings, which Leonida recognised as just. But, so as not to show herself vanquished in the first encounter, and won in the first advance, she did not give to Silvia as pleasant a reply as she wished. But still, at the intercession of Silvia, who forced her to it, she replied with this letter which I shall now repeat to you:

LEONIDA TOLISANDRO.

"If I had thought, Lisandro, that your great daring had sprung from my lack of modesty, I would have carried out on myself the punishment that your fault deserves; but as what I know of myself makes me sure on this point, I have come to the conclusion that your great boldness has proceeded more from idlethoughts, than from thoughts of love; and though they may be as you say, think not that you can move me to cure them, as you did Silvia to believe them. I complain more of her for having made me answer you, than of you who dared to write to me, for silence had been fit answer to your folly. If you draw back from your purpose, you will act wisely, for I would have you know that I deem my honour of more account than your empty thoughts."

This was Leonida's reply, which, together with the hopes that Silvia gave me, though it seemed somewhat harsh, made me count myself the happiest man on earth. Whilst these matters were passing between us, Crisalvo did not neglect to woo Silvia with countless messages, gifts and services; but so hard and severe was Crisalvo's disposition that he could never move Silvia to grant him the smallest favour. Whereat he was as desperate and impatient as a bull when speared and vanquished. For the sake of his love he had formed a friendship with the cunning Carino, Silvia's kinsman, though these two had first been mortal enemies, for in a wrestling-bout, which on a great feast-day the deftest swains of the place held before all the village, Carino was vanquished by Crisalvo, and mauled: so that he conceived in his heart undying hatred for Crisalvo, and no less was the hatred he felt against another person, a brother of mine, for having thwarted him in a love-affair, in which my brother carried off the fruit Carino hoped for. This rancour and ill-will Carino kept secret till time disclosed to him the opportunity when he might avenge himself on both at once, in the cruellest way imaginable. I kept friends with him, so that admission to Silvia's house might not be denied me; Crisalvo adored him, so that he might further his designs with Silvia; and his friendship was such that whenever Leonida came to Silvia's house, Carino accompanied her: wherefore it seemed good to Silvia to tell him, since he was my friend, of my love-affair with Leonida, which was by this time prospering with such ardour and good fortune, through Silvia's good offices, that we now awaited but the time and place to cull the honourable fruit of our pure desires. On hearing of this, Carino used me as an instrument to commit the greatest treason in the world. For one day (feigning to be true to Crisalvo, and giving him to understand that he rated his friendship higher than his kinswoman's honour), he told him that the chief reason why Silvia did not love or favour him, was that she was in love with me; he knew it unmistakably, and our love-affair was going on so openly that if he had not been blinded by his amorous passion he would by now have perceived it from a thousand signs; and the more to assure himself of the truth he was telling him, he bade him look to it henceforward, for he would see clearly how Silvia without any restraint granted me exceptional favours. Atthis news Crisalvo must have been quite beside himself, as appeared from what followed therefrom. Henceforward he employed spies to watch my dealings with Silvia; and as on many occasions I sought to be alone with her, in order to speak not of the love he thought, but of things concerning mine, these were reported to Crisalvo, together with other favours prompted by pure friendship, which Silvia showed me at every step. Whereat Crisalvo came to so desperate a pass, that many times he sought to kill me, though I did not think it was for such a cause, but on account of the long-standing enmity of our parents. But as he was Leonida's brother, I was more concerned to guard myself than to harm him, thinking it certain that if I married his sister our enmities would have an end. Of this he was quite ignorant, thinking rather that, because I was his enemy, I had sought to make love to Silvia, and not because I was really fond of her; and this increased his anger and resentment to such a degree that it robbed him of reason, though he had so little that little was needed to destroy it. And this evil thought wrought so strongly in him, that he came to loath Silvia as much as he had loved her, merely because she favoured me, not with the good-will he thought, but as Carino told him. And so, in whatever circle or assembly he was, he spoke ill of Silvia, giving her dishonourable names and epithets. But as all knew his ugly character and Silvia's goodness, they lent little or no belief to his words. Meanwhile Silvia had arranged with Leonida that we two should be married, and, in order that it might be done with more safety to ourselves, that it would be well for Leonida, one day when she came with Carino to her house, not to return that night to that of her parents, but to go thence in Carino's company to a village half a league distant from ours, where some rich kinsmen of mine lived, in whose house we could with greater peace effect our designs. For if Leonida's parents were not pleased at the issue, it would at least be easier, when she was away from them, to come to terms. This resolve having been taken, Carino was informed of it, and, displaying the greatest spirit, offered to Silvia to escort Leonida to the other village as she desired. The services I did to Carino for the good-will he showed, the promises I uttered to him, the embraces I gave him, would methinks have sufficed to extinguish in a heart of steel any evil purpose it might cherish against me. But that traitor of a Carino, casting behind him my words, deeds and promises, without regarding what he owed himself, planned the treason which now you shall hear. Having informed himself of Leonida's wish, and seeing that it agreed with what Silvia had told him, he planned that on the first night which from the appearance of the day promised to be dark, Leonida's departure should be effected, offering once more to maintain all possible secrecy and loyalty. After making this agreement which youhave heard, he went off to Crisalvo, as I have since learnt, and told him that his kinswoman Silvia had gone so far in her love-affair with me, that I had determined on a certain night to steal her from her parents' house, and take her to another village where my kinsmen dwelt. There an opportunity offered itself to avenge his feelings on both, on Silvia for the small account she had made of his services, on me for our long-standing enmity, and for the injury I had done him in robbing him of Silvia, since she was leaving him on my account alone. Carino knew how to exaggerate to him, and to say what he wanted, in such a way as, even with less effort, would have moved to any evil purpose a heart not so cruel as his. The day being now arrived which I thought was to be the day of my greatest bliss, after having told Carino not what he actually did do, but what he was to do, I went off to the other village to give orders how to receive Leonida. And to leave her entrusted to Carino was like leaving the innocent lamb in the power of the hungry wolves, or the gentle dove in the claws of the fierce hawk, who tears it to pieces. Ah, friend! when I come to this point with my imagination, I know not how I have strength to sustain life, nor thought to think of it, much more tongue to tell it! Ah, ill-advised Lisandro! How did you not know Carino's duplicity? Yet, who would not have trusted his words, since he risked so little in proving them true by deeds! Ah, ill-starred Leonida! how little did I know how to enjoy the favour you did me, in choosing me for your own! Finally, to end with the tragedy of my misfortune, you must know, discreet shepherd, that on the night Carino was to take Leonida with him to the village where I was expecting her, he summoned another shepherd, called Libeo, who ought to have considered him an enemy, though Carino concealed it beneath his wonted false dissimulation, and asked him to accompany him that night, for he was resolved to carry off a shepherdess, his sweetheart, to the village I have told you, where he purposed to marry her. Libeo, a man of spirit and a lover himself, readily offered him his company. Leonida bade farewell to Silvia with close embraces and loving tears, an omen, as it were, that it was to be the last farewell. The hapless maid must needs have thought then of the treason she was committing against her parents; not of that Carino was planning against her,—and how bad a return she was making for the good opinion that was held about her in the village. But, passing over all these thoughts, constrained by the loving thought that vanquished her, she entrusted herself to the care of Carino, who was to conduct her to where I awaited her. How often do I call to mind when I reach this point, what I dreamed the day I would have counted fortunate, had the number of my days ended thereon! I remember that, leaving the village a little while before the sun withdrew his rays fromour horizon, I sate me down at the foot of a tall ash tree on the very road by which Leonida was to come, waiting till night should close in a little more to further my purpose and to receive her, and without knowing how or wishing it, I fell asleep. Scarce had I yielded my eyes to slumber when, methought, the tree against which I leaned, bending before the fury of a fierce wind that was blowing, tearing its deep roots out of the earth, fell upon my body, and attempting to get away from the heavy weight, I rolled from side to side. While in this plight methought I saw a white hind beside me, which I earnestly implored to lift, as well as it could, the heavy burden from my shoulders, and when moved with compassion, it was about to do it, at the same moment a fierce lion sprang from the thicket, and seizing it in his sharp claws, marched off with it through the forest. After I had escaped with great toil from the heavy burden, I went to look for it in the mountain, and found it torn and wounded in a thousand places. Whereat I felt so much grief that my soul was wrung from me merely by reason of the pity it had shown at my plight: and thus I began to weep in my dreams, so that the tears themselves awoke me, and finding my cheeks bathed with sorrow I was beside myself, pondering on what I had dreamed; but in the joy I hoped to have in seeing my Leonida, I failed to see then that fortune was showing me in dreams what was to happen in a short time to me awake. At the moment when I awoke night had just closed in with such darkness, with such terrible thunder and lightning as furthered the perpetration of the cruel deed which that night was perpetrated. As Carino left Silvia's house with Leonida, he entrusted her to Libeo, telling him to go with her by the road to the village I have mentioned, and though Leonida was perturbed at seeing Libeo, Carino assured her that Libeo was no less a friend of mine than he was, and that in security she could go with him slowly whilst he went forward to give me tidings of her approach. The guileless maid, being after all in love, believed the words of the treacherous Carino, and with less mistrust than was fitting, guided by the courteous Libeo, advanced her timid steps, which were to be the last of her life, thinking they led her to the height of her bliss. Carino went on before the two, as I have already told you, and gave information of what was happening to Crisalvo, who with four of his kinsmen was in ambush on the very road by which they were to pass, this being wholly shut in by forest on either side. He told them how Silvia was coming and I was the only one with her, and that they should rejoice at the good opportunity fate put in their hands to avenge the wrong we two had done him, and that he should be the first to prove the edge of his knife on Silvia, though she was a kinswoman of his. Immediately the five cruel butchers prepared to stain themselves in the innocentblood of the pair who came along the road all unsuspicious of such treason; when they reached the place where the ambush was, at once the traitorous murderers were on them, and surrounded them. Crisalvo came up to Leonida, thinking she was Silvia, and with insulting and excited words, in the hellish rage which mastered him, left her stretched on the ground with six mortal wounds, whilst Libeo weltered on the earth with countless stabs dealt by the other four, who thought they were inflicting them on me. When Carino saw how well his traitorous intent had turned out, without awaiting words, he went away, and the five traitors, fully satisfied as if they had done some notable exploit, returned to their village. Crisalvo went to Silvia's house himself to give her parents the news of what he had done, so as to increase their grief and pain, telling them to go and bury their daughter Silvia, whose life he had taken because she had set more store on the cold esteem of Lisandro his enemy, than on the unremitting attentions shown by him. Silvia, who heard what Crisalvo was saying,—her soul telling her what had happened, told him that she was alive, and free too from all that he had accused her of; and that he should be sure he had not killed one whose death would grieve him more than the loss of his own life. And with this she told him that his sister Leonida had that night left her house in unwonted apparel. Crisalvo was amazed to see Silvia alive, thinking for sure that he had left her dead, and being suddenly seized with great fear, immediately hastened to his house, and not finding his sister there, returned alone in the greatest consternation and frenzy to see who it was he had killed, since Silvia was alive. Whilst all this was going on, I was awaiting Carino and Leonida with strange anxiety; and as it seemed to me that by this time they were later than they should be, I wished to go and meet them, or learn if by any accident they had been detained that night. I had not gone far along the road when I heard a piteous voice saying: "Oh sovereign Maker of Heaven, withhold the hand of thy justice and open that of thy mercy in order to show mercy to this soul, which soon shall give account to thee of the offences it has committed against thee! Ah Lisandro, Lisandro! surely Carino's friendship will yet cost you your life, since it cannot be that grief for my having lost mine for your sake will put an end to it! Ah, cruel brother, can it be that without hearing my excuses you desired to inflict on me so soon the punishment of my error?" When I heard these words, I at once recognised from the voice and from them that it was Leonida who uttered them, and—an augury of my misfortune—with feelings in a turmoil, I set to groping where Leonida was weltering in her own blood; and, having at once recognised her, I let myself fall on her wounded body, and with the greatest grief possible, said to her: "What woe is this, my joy, my soul? what cruel hand was it that did notrespect so much beauty?" At these words I was recognised by Leonida; and raising her weary arms with much effort, she threw them round my neck, and, pressing with all her strength, she joined her mouth to mine, and, with weak and broken utterance, spoke but these words to me: "My brother has killed me, Carino ... betrayed, Libeo is without life, and may God give you yours, Lisandro mine, for long and happy years, and may he grant that I enjoy in another life the peace denied me here;" and, joining her mouth closer to mine, she pressed her lips together to give me her first and last kiss; and, as she opened them, her soul went from her, and she lay dead in my arms. When I perceived it, I abandoned myself to grief over her body, and remained senseless; and if, instead of being alive, I had been dead, whoever saw us in that plight had called to mind the hapless plight of Pyramus and Thisbe. But on coming to myself, I had opened my mouth to fill the air with cries and sobs, when I perceived someone coming with hurried steps to where I was; and, when he was near, though the night was dark, the eyes of my soul gave me assurance that he who came there was Crisalvo, as was the truth. He was coming back to convince himself whether perchance it was his sister Leonida he had killed. When I recognised him, before he could guard himself against me, I came upon him like a raging lion; and, giving him two blows, I brought him to the ground. Before he ceased to breathe, I dragged him to where Leonida was, and, placing in her dead hand the dagger her brother wore—the same with which she had been killed—I guided it and plunged it thrice through his heart. And mine being somewhat consoled by Crisalvo's death, without further delay I took upon my shoulders Leonida's body, and bore it to the village where my kinsmen lived. Telling them what had happened, I asked them to give it honourable burial, and immediately determined to take on Carino the same vengeance as on Crisalvo; but, since he has kept away from our village, it has been delayed until to-day, when I found him on the skirts of this wood, after going about in search of him for six months. Now he has come to the end his treason deserved; and none now is left on whom to wreak vengeance, unless it be the life I endure so much against my will. This, shepherd, is the cause whence proceed the laments you have heard from me. If it seems to you sufficient to cause yet a deeper grief, I leave to your good judgment to determine!'

Therewith he ended his discourse, and set to weeping so copiously that Elicio could not refrain from keeping him company therein; but after they had for a long while eased with gentle sighs, the one the pain he suffered, the other the compassion he felt thereat, Elicio began to console Lisandro with the best arguments he knew, though his misfortune was asfar beyond consolation as he had seen from its issue. Amongst other things he said to him, the one which gave Lisandro most solace was to tell him that in misfortunes beyond remedy, the best remedy was to hope for none; and, since one might believe from Leonida's purity and noble disposition, according to his account, that she was enjoying a life of bliss, he should rather rejoice at the happiness she had gained, than grieve for that which she had lost. Whereto Lisandro replied:

'I know full well, my friend, that your arguments have power to make me believe they are true; but not that they have—nor will all the arguments in the world have—power to give me any consolation. With Leonida's death began my evil fortune, which will end when I behold her again; and since this cannot be without I die, the man who should help me to attain death will I count the greatest friend of my life!'

Elicio did not wish to give him more sorrow with his words of solace, since he did not regard them as such; only he asked him to come with him to his hut, where he might stay as long as it pleased him, offering him his friendship in all wherein he might be able to serve him. Lisandro thanked him as heartily as possible; and though he was unwilling to consent to go with Elicio, yet he had to do so, constrained by his repeated asking. And so the two arose, and came to Elicio's cabin, where they rested for the little that remained of the night. Now when the white dawn was leaving the couch of her jealous husband, and beginning to give signs of the coming day, Erastro arose and began to put in order Elicio's herd and his own to lead them to the accustomed pasture. Elicio invited Lisandro to come with him; and so, when the three shepherds came with their gentle flock of sheep through a ravine below, on ascending an incline, they heard the sound of a gentle pipe, which was straightway recognized by the two enamoured swains, Elicio and Erastro, for it was Galatea who was playing it. And it was not long before some sheep began to show themselves over the crest of the hill, and immediately behind them Galatea, whose beauty was such that it were better to leave it to speak for itself, since words fail to enhance it. She came dressed like a girl of the mountains, with her long hair free to the wind, whereof the sun himself appeared to be envious, for, smiting it with his rays, he sought to rob it of lustre if he could; but that which came from the glimmer of it seemed another new sun. Erastro was beside himself looking at her, and Elicio could not keep his eyes from gazing at her. When Galatea saw the flock of Elicio and Erastro join hers, she showed that she did not wish that day to keep them company, and called to the pet lamb of her flock, which the rest followed, and directed it to another spot, different from that for which the shepherds were making. Elicio, seeing what Galatea was doing, and being unable toendure such open contempt, came to where the shepherdess was and said to her:

'Permit your flock, fair Galatea, to come with ours, and, if you do not like our company, choose that which will please you better, for your sheep will not, through your absence, lack good pasturage, since I, who was born to serve you, will take more care of them than of my own. Do not seek to disdain me so openly, for the pure affection I cherish towards you does not deserve it. According to the way you were taking, you were making for the spring of slates, but, now you have seen me, you wish to change your road; and, if this is as I think, tell me where you wish, to-day and always, to graze your herd, for I swear to you never to take mine there.'

'I assure you, Elicio,' replied Galatea, 'that it was not to shun your company or that of Erastro that I have changed the way you think I was taking, for my intention is to spend the noon-tide of to-day by the stream of palms, in the company of my friend Florisa, who is awaiting me there, for as early as yesterday we two agreed to graze our flocks there to-day. As I came along, heedlessly playing my pipe, the pet lamb took the road of slates, as more accustomed for it. For the affection you bear me and the offers you make me I thank you, and count it no small thing that I have justified myself against your suspicion.'

'Ah, Galatea!' replied Elicio, 'how well you invent what seems good to you, though you have so little need to use stratagem with me, for after all I do not seek to wish more than you wish! Now, whether you go to the stream of palms, to the wood of council, or to the spring of slates, be assured that you cannot go alone, for my soul accompanies you always; and, if you do not see it, it is because you do not wish to see it, so that you may not be obliged to heal it.'

'Until now,' said Galatea, 'I have yet to see my first soul, and so I am not to blame if I have healed none.'

'I do not know how you can say that, fair Galatea,' replied Elicio, 'since you see them to wound them, and not to heal them.'

'You accuse me falsely,' replied Galatea, 'in saying that I have wounded anyone without arms, seeing that these are not granted to women.'

'Ah, discreet Galatea,' said Elicio, 'how you jest at what you perceive of my soul, which you have invisibly wounded, and with no other arms than those of your beauty! I do not so much complain of the wrong you have done me, as that you hold it in little account.'

'I would hold myself in less account, if I held it in more,' replied Galatea.

At this moment Erastro came up, and, seeing that Galatea was going off and leaving them, said to her:

'Where are you going, whom do you flee, fair Galatea? If you part from us who adore you, who shall hope for your company? Ah fair foe! how heedlessly you go your way, triumphing over our affections! May Heaven destroy the warm affection I bear you, if I do not long to see you in love with some one who may value your plaints in the same degree as you value mine! Do you laugh at what I say, Galatea? Then I weep at what you do.'

Galatea could not answer Erastro, for she was going away, guiding her flock towards the stream of palms; and bowing her head from afar in token of farewell, she left them. When she saw herself alone, whilst she was making for the spot where her friend Florisa thought she would be, with the exquisite voice Heaven had pleased to give her, she went along singing this sonnet:

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