Being now free and relieved from what they had to do that night with their flocks, they arranged to retire and withdraw with Teolinda to a spot where they might, without being hindered by anyone, hear what was lacking of the issue of her love. And so they betook themselves to a little garden by Galatea's house; and, the three seating themselves beneath a stately green vine which entwined itself in an intricate manner along some wooden network, Teolinda repeated once more some words of what she had said before and went on, saying:
'After our dance and Artidoro's song were ended, as I have already told you, fair shepherdesses, it seemed good to all of us to return to the village to perform in the temple the solemn rites, and because it likewise seemed to us that the solemnity of the feast in some way gave us liberty; but not being so punctilious as to seclusion, we enjoyed ourselves with more freedom. Wherefore we all, shepherds and shepherdesses, in a confused mass, with gladness and rejoicing returned to the village, speaking each with the one who pleased him best. Fate, and my care, and Artidoro's solicitude also ordained that, without any display of artifice in the matter, we two kept apart from the rest in such a manner that on the way we might safely have said more than what we did say, if each of us had not respected what we owed to ourselves and to each other. At length I said to him, to draw him out, as the saying goes: "The days you have spent in our village, Artidoro, will be years to you, since in your own you must have things to occupy you which must give you greater pleasure." "All that I can hope for in my life," replied Artidoro, "would I exchange, if only the days I have to spend here might be, not years, but centuries, since, when they come to an end, I do not hope to pass others that may give me greater joy." "Is the joy you feel so great," I replied, "at seeing our festivals?" "It does not arise from this," he answered, "butfrom regarding the beauty of the shepherdesses of your village." "In truth," I retorted, "pretty girls must be wanting in yours." "The truth is that they are not wanting there," he replied, "but that here there is a superabundance, so that one single one I have seen is enough for those of yonder place to count themselves ugly compared to her." "Your courtesy makes you say this, oh Artidoro," I replied, "for I know full well that in this hamlet there is no one who excels so much as you say." "I know better that what I say is true," he answered, "since I have seen the one and beheld the others." "Perhaps you beheld her from afar, and the distance between," said I, "made you see a different thing from what it really was." "In the same way," he replied, "as I see and am beholding you now, I beheld and saw her. Happy should I be to have been mistaken, if her disposition does not agree with her beauty." "It would not grieve me to be the one you say, for the pleasure she must feel who sees herself proclaimed and accounted beautiful." "I would much rather that you were not," replied Artidoro. "Then what would you lose," I answered, "if instead of not being the one you say, I were?" "What I have gained, I know full well," he replied, "as to what I have to lose, I am doubtful and in fear." "You know well how to play the lover, Artidoro," said I. "You know better how to inspire love, Teolinda," he replied. Thereon I said to him, "I do not know if I should tell you, Artidoro, that I wish neither of us to be deceived." Whereto he replied, "I am quite sure that I am not deceived, and it is in your hands to seek to undeceive yourself as often as you seek to make trial of the pure desire I have to serve you." "I will reward you for that," I answered, "with the same desire; for it seems to me that it would not be well to remain indebted to anybody where the cost is so small." At this moment, without his having a chance to reply to me, the head-shepherd Eleuco came up, saying in a loud voice: "Ho, gay shepherds and fair shepherdesses, make them hear our approach in the village, you singing some chant, maidens, so that we can reply to you, in order that the people of the hamlet may see how much we who are on our way here, do to make our festival joyous." And because in nothing that Eleuco commanded did he fail to be obeyed, straightway the shepherds beckoned to me to begin; and so, availing myself of the opportunity, and profiting by what had passed with Artidoro, I commenced this chant:
Whosoever by much strivingWould the perfect lover beHonour needs and secrecy.Wouldst thou seek with heart elateLove's sweet joy to reach aright,Take as key to thy delightHonour, secrecy as gate.Who thereby would enter straight,Wise and witty though he beHonour needs and secrecy.Whoso loveth human beauty,With reproach is oft confounded,If his passion be not boundedBy his honour and his duty:And such noble love as bootyWinneth every man, if heHonour have and secrecy.Everyone this truth hath known,And it cannot be denied,That speech oft will lose the brideWhom a silent tongue hath won,And he will all conflict shunWho a lover is, if heHonour have and secrecy.Chattering tongues, audacious eyes,May have brought a thousand cares,May have set a thousand snaresFor the soul, and so it dies.Whoso would his miseriesLessen, and from strife be free,Honour needs and secrecy.
Whosoever by much strivingWould the perfect lover beHonour needs and secrecy.Wouldst thou seek with heart elateLove's sweet joy to reach aright,Take as key to thy delightHonour, secrecy as gate.Who thereby would enter straight,Wise and witty though he beHonour needs and secrecy.Whoso loveth human beauty,With reproach is oft confounded,If his passion be not boundedBy his honour and his duty:And such noble love as bootyWinneth every man, if heHonour have and secrecy.Everyone this truth hath known,And it cannot be denied,That speech oft will lose the brideWhom a silent tongue hath won,And he will all conflict shunWho a lover is, if heHonour have and secrecy.Chattering tongues, audacious eyes,May have brought a thousand cares,May have set a thousand snaresFor the soul, and so it dies.Whoso would his miseriesLessen, and from strife be free,Honour needs and secrecy.
Whosoever by much strivingWould the perfect lover beHonour needs and secrecy.
Wouldst thou seek with heart elateLove's sweet joy to reach aright,Take as key to thy delightHonour, secrecy as gate.Who thereby would enter straight,Wise and witty though he beHonour needs and secrecy.
Whoso loveth human beauty,With reproach is oft confounded,If his passion be not boundedBy his honour and his duty:And such noble love as bootyWinneth every man, if heHonour have and secrecy.
Everyone this truth hath known,And it cannot be denied,That speech oft will lose the brideWhom a silent tongue hath won,And he will all conflict shunWho a lover is, if heHonour have and secrecy.
Chattering tongues, audacious eyes,May have brought a thousand cares,May have set a thousand snaresFor the soul, and so it dies.Whoso would his miseriesLessen, and from strife be free,Honour needs and secrecy.
'I know not, fair shepherdesses, if in singing what you have heard I succeeded; but I know very well that Artidoro knew how to profit by it, since all the time he was in our village, though he often spoke to me, it was with so much reserve, secrecy, and modesty that idle eyes and chattering tongues neither had nor saw aught to say that might be prejudicial to our honour. But in the fear I had that, when the period Artidoro had promised to spend in our village was ended, he would have to go to his own, I sought, though at the cost of my modesty, that my heart should not remain with the regret of having kept silence on what it were useless to speak afterwards, when Artidoro had gone. And so, after my eyes gave leave for his most beauteous eyes to gaze on me lovingly, our tongues were not still, nor failed to show with words what up till then the eyes had so clearly declared by sign. Finally, you must know, friends, that one day when I found myself by chance alone with Artidoro, he disclosed to me, with tokens of an ardent love and courtesy, the true and honourable love he felt for me; and though I would have wished to play the reluctant prude, yet, because I was afraid, as I have already told you, that he would go, I did not wish to disdain him nor to dismiss him, and also because it seemed to me that the lack of sympathy, inspiredor felt at the beginning of a love-affair, is the reason why those who are not very experienced in their passion, abandon and leave the enterprise they have begun. Wherefore I gave him answer such as I desired to give him. We agreed in the resolve that he should repair to his village, and a few days after should by some honourable mediation send to ask me in marriage from my parents; whereat he was so happy and content that he did not cease to call the day fortunate on which his eyes beheld me. As for me, I can tell you that I would not have changed my happiness for any other that could be imagined; for I was sure that Artidoro's worth and good qualities were such that my father would be happy to receive him as a son-in-law. The happy climax you have heard, shepherdesses, was the climax of our love, for only two or three days remained before Artidoro's departure, when fortune, as one who never set bounds to her designs, ordained that a sister of mine, a little younger than I, should return to our village from another where she had been for some days, in the house of an aunt of ours who was ill. And in order that you may see, ladies, what strange and unthought-of chances happen in the world, I would have you know a fact which I think will not fail to cause in you some strange feeling of wonder: it is that this sister of mine I have told you of, who up till then had been away, resembles me so much in face, stature, grace, and spirit (if I have any), that not merely those of our hamlet, but our very parents have often mistaken us, and spoken to the one for the other, so that, not to fall into this error, they distinguished us by the differences of our dresses, which were different. In one thing only, as I believe, did Nature make us quite different, namely, in disposition, my sister's being harsher than my happiness required, since, because of her being less compassionate than sharp-witted, I shall have to weep as long as my life endures. It happened, then, that as soon as my sister came to the village desiring to resume the rustic duties that were pleasing to her, she rose next day earlier than I wished, and went off to the meadow with the very sheep I used to lead; and though I wished to follow her by reason of the happiness which followed to me from the sight of my Artidoro, for some reason or other my mother kept me at home the whole of that day, which was the last of my joys. For that night my sister, having brought back her flock, told me as in secret that she had to tell me something of great importance to me. I, who might have imagined anything rather than what she said to me, arranged that we should soon see each other alone, when with face somewhat moved, I hanging on her words, she began to say to me: "I know not, sister mine, what to think of your honour, nor yet whether I should be silent on what I cannot refrain from telling you, in order tosee if you give me any excuse for the fault I imagine you are guilty of: and though, as a younger sister, I should have addressed you with more respect, you must forgive me; for in what I have seen to-day you will find the excuse for what I say to you." When I heard her speaking in this way I knew not what to answer her except to tell her to go on with her discourse. "You must know, sister," she proceeded, "that this morning when I went forth with our sheep to the meadow, and was going alone with them along the bank of our cool Henares, as I passed through the glade of counsel there came out towards me a shepherd whom I can truly swear I have never seen in our district; and with a strange freedom of manner he began to greet me so lovingly that I stood shamed and confused, not knowing what to answer him. Failing to take warning from the anger which I fancy I showed in my face, he came up to me, saying to me: 'What silence is this, fair Teolinda, last refuge of this soul that adores you?' And he was on the point of taking my hands to kiss them, adding to what I have said a whole list of endearments, which it seemed he brought ready prepared. At once I understood, seeing that he was falling into the error many others have fallen into, and thinking he was speaking with you; whence a suspicion arose in me that if you, sister, had never seen him, nor treated him with familiarity, it would not be possible for him to have the boldness to speak to you in that way. Whereat I felt so great a rage that I could scarcely form words to answer him, but at last I replied to him in the way his boldness deserved, and as it seemed to me you, sister, would have had to answer anyone speaking to you so freely; and if it had not been that the shepherdess Licea came up at that moment, I had added such words that he would truly have repented addressing his to me. And the best of it is that I never chose to tell him of the error he was in, but that he believed I was Teolinda, as if he had been speaking with you yourself. At last he went off, calling me thankless, ungrateful, one who showed little return; and from what I can judge from the expression he bore, I assure you, sister, he will not dare speak to you again though he should meet you all alone. What I want to know is who is this shepherd, and what converse has been between you, whence it comes that he dare speak to you with such freedom?" To your great discretion, discreet shepherdesses, I leave it to imagine what my soul would feel on hearing what my sister told me: but at length, dissembling as best I could, I said to her: "You have done me the greatest favour in the world, sister Leonarda," (for so was called the disturber of my peace) "in having by your harsh words rid me of the disgust and turmoil caused me by the importunities you mention of this shepherd. He is a stranger who for eight days has been in our village, whose thoughts are full of arroganceand folly, so great that wherever he sees me he treats me as you have seen, giving himself up to the belief that he has won my good-will; and though I have undeceived him, perhaps with harsher words than you said to him, nevertheless he does not cease to persist in his vain purpose. I assure you, sister, that I wish the new day were here that I might go and tell him that if he does not desist from his vain hope, he may expect the end to it which my words have always indicated to him." And it was indeed true, sweet friends, that I would have given all that might have been asked of me, if it had but been dawn, only that I might go and see my Artidoro, and undeceive him of the error he had fallen into, fearing lest through the bitter and petulant reply my sister had given him he should be disdainful and do something to prejudice our agreement. The long nights of rough December were not more irksome to the lover hoping some happiness from the coming day than was that night distasteful to me, though it was one of the short nights of summer, since I longed for the new light to go and see the light whereby my eyes saw. And so, before the stars wholly lost their brightness, being even in doubt whether it were night or day, constrained by my longing, on the pretext of going to pasture my sheep, I went forth from the village, and hurrying the flock more than usual to urge it on, reached the spot where at other times I was wont to find Artidoro, which I found deserted and without anything to give me indication of him; whereat my heart throbbed violently within me, for it almost guessed the evil which was in store for it. How often, seeing that I did not find him, did I wish to beat the air with my voice, calling out my Artidoro's beloved name, and to say, "Come, my joy, I am the true Teolinda, who longs for you and loves you more than herself!" But fear lest my words might be heard by another than him, made me keep more silent than I should have wished. And so, after I had traversed once and yet again all the bank and wood of the gentle Henares, I sat me down, wearied, at the foot of a green willow, waiting until the bright sun should with his rays spread over all the face of the earth, so that in his brightness there might not remain thicket, cave, copse, cottage, or hut where I might not go seeking my joy. But scarcely had the new light given opportunity to distinguish colours, when straightway a rough-barked poplar, which was before me, presented itself to my eyes: on it and on many others I saw some letters written, which I at once recognised to be from Artidoro's hand, set there; and rising in haste to see what they said, I saw, fair shepherdesses, that it was this:
Shepherdess, alone in theeDo I find that beauty rareWhich to naught can I compareSave to thine own cruelty.Thou wert fickle, loyal I,Thus thou sowedst with open handPromises upon the sand;Down the wind my hope did fly.Never had I thought to knowThat thy sweet and joyous "yes"Would be followed—I confess—By a sad and bitter "no."Yet I had not been undone,Had the eyes that gazed on theeKept in sight prosperity,Not thy loveliness alone.But the more thy mystic graceSpeaks of promise and of gladness,All the more I sink in sadness,All my wits are in a maze.Ah, those eyes! they proved untrue,Though compassionate in seeming.Tell me, eyes so falsely beaming,How they sinned that gaze on you.Is there man, cruel shepherdess,But thou couldst beguile his fanciesBy thy staid and modest glances,By thy voice's sweet caress?This indeed have I believed,That thou couldst have, days ago,Held me, hadst thou wished it so,Captive, vanquished, and deceived.Lo, the letters I shall writeOn the rough bark of this tree—Firmer than did faith with thee,Will they grow in time's despite.On thy lips thy faith was set,On thy promises so vain;Firmer 'gainst the wind-tossed mainIs the rock the gale hath met.Fearsome art thou, full of baneAs the viper which we pressUnder foot—ah, shepherdess,False as fair, my charm and pain!Whatsoe'er thy crueltyBiddeth, I without delayWill perform; to disobeyThy command was ne'er in me.I shall far in exile dieThat contented thou mayst live,But beware lest Love perceiveHow thou scorn'st my misery.In Love's dance, though Love may placeLoyal heart in bondage strait,Yet it may not change its state,But must stay, to shun disgrace.Thou in beauty dost excelEvery maiden on this earth,And I thought that from thy worthThou wert firm in love as well.Now my love the truth doth know'Twas that Nature wished to limnIn thy face an angel, TimeIn thy mood that changes so.Wouldst thou know where I have gone,Where my woeful life shall end,Mark my blood, thy footsteps bendBy the path my blood hath shown.And though naught with thee doth wellOf our love and harmonyDo not to the corse denyE'en the sad and last farewell.Thou wilt be without remorse,Harder than the diamond stone,If thou makest not thy moan,When thou dost behold my corse.If in life thou hatedst me,Then amidst my hapless plightI shall count my death delightTo be dead and wept by thee.
Shepherdess, alone in theeDo I find that beauty rareWhich to naught can I compareSave to thine own cruelty.Thou wert fickle, loyal I,Thus thou sowedst with open handPromises upon the sand;Down the wind my hope did fly.Never had I thought to knowThat thy sweet and joyous "yes"Would be followed—I confess—By a sad and bitter "no."Yet I had not been undone,Had the eyes that gazed on theeKept in sight prosperity,Not thy loveliness alone.But the more thy mystic graceSpeaks of promise and of gladness,All the more I sink in sadness,All my wits are in a maze.Ah, those eyes! they proved untrue,Though compassionate in seeming.Tell me, eyes so falsely beaming,How they sinned that gaze on you.Is there man, cruel shepherdess,But thou couldst beguile his fanciesBy thy staid and modest glances,By thy voice's sweet caress?This indeed have I believed,That thou couldst have, days ago,Held me, hadst thou wished it so,Captive, vanquished, and deceived.Lo, the letters I shall writeOn the rough bark of this tree—Firmer than did faith with thee,Will they grow in time's despite.On thy lips thy faith was set,On thy promises so vain;Firmer 'gainst the wind-tossed mainIs the rock the gale hath met.Fearsome art thou, full of baneAs the viper which we pressUnder foot—ah, shepherdess,False as fair, my charm and pain!Whatsoe'er thy crueltyBiddeth, I without delayWill perform; to disobeyThy command was ne'er in me.I shall far in exile dieThat contented thou mayst live,But beware lest Love perceiveHow thou scorn'st my misery.In Love's dance, though Love may placeLoyal heart in bondage strait,Yet it may not change its state,But must stay, to shun disgrace.Thou in beauty dost excelEvery maiden on this earth,And I thought that from thy worthThou wert firm in love as well.Now my love the truth doth know'Twas that Nature wished to limnIn thy face an angel, TimeIn thy mood that changes so.Wouldst thou know where I have gone,Where my woeful life shall end,Mark my blood, thy footsteps bendBy the path my blood hath shown.And though naught with thee doth wellOf our love and harmonyDo not to the corse denyE'en the sad and last farewell.Thou wilt be without remorse,Harder than the diamond stone,If thou makest not thy moan,When thou dost behold my corse.If in life thou hatedst me,Then amidst my hapless plightI shall count my death delightTo be dead and wept by thee.
Shepherdess, alone in theeDo I find that beauty rareWhich to naught can I compareSave to thine own cruelty.Thou wert fickle, loyal I,Thus thou sowedst with open handPromises upon the sand;Down the wind my hope did fly.
Never had I thought to knowThat thy sweet and joyous "yes"Would be followed—I confess—By a sad and bitter "no."Yet I had not been undone,Had the eyes that gazed on theeKept in sight prosperity,Not thy loveliness alone.
But the more thy mystic graceSpeaks of promise and of gladness,All the more I sink in sadness,All my wits are in a maze.Ah, those eyes! they proved untrue,Though compassionate in seeming.Tell me, eyes so falsely beaming,How they sinned that gaze on you.
Is there man, cruel shepherdess,But thou couldst beguile his fanciesBy thy staid and modest glances,By thy voice's sweet caress?This indeed have I believed,That thou couldst have, days ago,Held me, hadst thou wished it so,Captive, vanquished, and deceived.
Lo, the letters I shall writeOn the rough bark of this tree—Firmer than did faith with thee,Will they grow in time's despite.On thy lips thy faith was set,On thy promises so vain;Firmer 'gainst the wind-tossed mainIs the rock the gale hath met.
Fearsome art thou, full of baneAs the viper which we pressUnder foot—ah, shepherdess,False as fair, my charm and pain!Whatsoe'er thy crueltyBiddeth, I without delayWill perform; to disobeyThy command was ne'er in me.
I shall far in exile dieThat contented thou mayst live,But beware lest Love perceiveHow thou scorn'st my misery.In Love's dance, though Love may placeLoyal heart in bondage strait,Yet it may not change its state,But must stay, to shun disgrace.
Thou in beauty dost excelEvery maiden on this earth,And I thought that from thy worthThou wert firm in love as well.Now my love the truth doth know'Twas that Nature wished to limnIn thy face an angel, TimeIn thy mood that changes so.
Wouldst thou know where I have gone,Where my woeful life shall end,Mark my blood, thy footsteps bendBy the path my blood hath shown.And though naught with thee doth wellOf our love and harmonyDo not to the corse denyE'en the sad and last farewell.
Thou wilt be without remorse,Harder than the diamond stone,If thou makest not thy moan,When thou dost behold my corse.If in life thou hatedst me,Then amidst my hapless plightI shall count my death delightTo be dead and wept by thee.
'What words will suffice, shepherdesses, to make you understand the extremity of grief that seized upon my heart, when I clearly understood that the verses I had read were my beloved Artidoro's? But there is no reason why I should make too much of it to you, since it did not go as far as was needed to end my life, which thenceforward I have held in such loathing, that I would not feel, nor could there come to me, a greater pleasure than to lose it. So great and of such a kind were the sighs I then gave forth, the tears I shed, the piteous cries I uttered, that none who had heard me but would have taken me for mad. In short, I remained in such a state, that, without considering what I owed to my honour, I determined to forsake my dear native land, beloved parents and cherished brothers, and to leave my simple flock to take care of itself; and, without heeding aught else save what I deemed to be necessary for my satisfaction, that very morning, embracing a thousand times the bark where my Artidoro's hand had been, I departed from that place withthe intent to come to these banks where I know Artidoro has and makes his abode, to see if he has been so inconsiderate and cruel to himself, as to put into practice what he left written in his last verses: for if it were so, henceforward I promise you, my friends, that the desire and haste with which I shall follow him in death, shall be no less than the willingness with which I have loved him in life. But, woe is me! I verily believe there is no foreboding which may be to my hurt but will turn out true, for it is now nine days since I came to these cool banks, and all this while I have learnt no tidings of what I desire; and may it please God that when I learn them, it may not be the worst I forebode. Here you see, discreet maidens, the mournful issue of my life of love. I have now told you who I am and what I seek; if you have any tidings of my happiness, may fortune grant you the greatest you desire, so that you do not withhold it from me.'
With such tears did the loving shepherdess accompany the words she uttered, that he would have had a heart of steel who had not grieved at them. Galatea and Florisa, who were naturally of a pitying disposition, could not hold theirs back, nor yet did they fail to comfort her with the most soothing and helpful words in their power, counselling her to remain some days in their company; that perhaps her fortune would in the meantime cause her to learn some tidings of Artidoro, since Heaven would not allow a shepherd so discreet as she depicted him by reason of so strange an error to end the course of his youthful years; that it might be that Artidoro, his thought having in course of time returned to better course and purpose, might return to see the native land he longed for and his sweet friends; and that she might, therefore, hope to find him there better than elsewhere. The shepherdess, somewhat consoled by these and other reasonings, was pleased to remain with them, thanking them for the favour they did her, and for the desire they showed to secure her happiness. At this moment the serene night, urging on her starry car through the sky, gave token that the new day was approaching; and the shepherdesses, in desire and need of rest, arose and repaired from the cool garden to their dwellings. But scarce had the bright sun with his warm rays scattered and consumed the dense mist, which on cool mornings is wont to spread through the air, when the three shepherdesses, leaving their lazy couches, returned to the wonted pursuit of grazing their flock, Galatea and Florisa with thoughts far different from that cherished by the fair Teolinda, who went her way so sad and thoughtful that it was a marvel. And for this reason, Galatea, to see if she might in some way distract her, begged her to lay aside her melancholy for a while, and be so good as to sing some verses to the sound of Florisa's pipe. To this Teolinda replied:
'If I thought that the great cause I have for weeping, despitethe slight cause I have for singing, would be diminished in any way, you might well forgive me, fair Galatea, for not doing what you bid me; but as I already know by experience that what my tongue utters in song, my heart confirms with weeping, I will do what you wish, since thereby I shall satisfy your desire without going contrary to mine.'
And straightway the shepherdess Florisa played her pipe, to the sound of which Teolinda sang this sonnet:
TEOLINDA.
Whither a flagrant cruel lie doth go,This have I learned from my grievous state,And how Love with my hurt doth meditateThe life that fear denies me, to bestow.To dwell within my flesh my soul doth cease,Following his soul that by some mystic fateIn pain hath placed it, and in woe so greatThat happiness brings strife, and sorrow peace.If I do live, 'tis hope that makes me live,Hope, that, though slight and weak, doth upward mount,Clinging unto the strength my love doth give.Ah firm beginning, transformation frail,Bitterest total of a sweet account!Amidst your persecutions life must fail.
Whither a flagrant cruel lie doth go,This have I learned from my grievous state,And how Love with my hurt doth meditateThe life that fear denies me, to bestow.To dwell within my flesh my soul doth cease,Following his soul that by some mystic fateIn pain hath placed it, and in woe so greatThat happiness brings strife, and sorrow peace.If I do live, 'tis hope that makes me live,Hope, that, though slight and weak, doth upward mount,Clinging unto the strength my love doth give.Ah firm beginning, transformation frail,Bitterest total of a sweet account!Amidst your persecutions life must fail.
Whither a flagrant cruel lie doth go,
This have I learned from my grievous state,
And how Love with my hurt doth meditate
The life that fear denies me, to bestow.
To dwell within my flesh my soul doth cease,
Following his soul that by some mystic fate
In pain hath placed it, and in woe so great
That happiness brings strife, and sorrow peace.
If I do live, 'tis hope that makes me live,
Hope, that, though slight and weak, doth upward mount,
Clinging unto the strength my love doth give.
Ah firm beginning, transformation frail,
Bitterest total of a sweet account!
Amidst your persecutions life must fail.
Teolinda had scarcely ceased singing the sonnet you have heard, when, on their right hand, on the slope of the cool vale, the three shepherdesses became aware of the sound of a pipe, whose sweetness was such that all halted and stood still, to enjoy the sweet harmony with more attention. And anon they heard the sound of a small rebeck, attuning itself to that of the pipe with grace and skill so great that the two shepherdesses Galatea and Florisa stood rapt, wondering what shepherds they might be who played with such harmony; for they clearly saw that none of those they knew was so skilled in music, unless it were Elicio.
'At this moment,' said Teolinda, 'if my ears deceive me not, fair shepherdesses, I think you now have on your banks the two renowned and famous shepherds Thyrsis and Damon, natives of my country—at least Thyrsis is, who was born in famous Compluto, a town founded on our Henares' banks; and Damon, his intimate and perfect friend, if I am not ill informed, draws his origin from the mountains of León, and was nurtured in Mantua Carpentanea, the renowned. Both are so excellent in every manner of discretion, learning and praiseworthy pursuits, that not only are they known within the boundaries of our district, but they are known and esteemed throughout all the boundaries of the land; and think not, shepherdesses, that the genius of these two shepherds extends merely to knowing what befits the shepherd's lot, for it passes so far beyond that they teach and dispute of the hidden things of Heaven and the unknown thingsof earth, in terms and modes agreed upon. And I am perplexed to think what cause will have moved them to leave, Thyrsis his sweet and beloved Phyllis, Damon his fair and modest Amaryllis; Phyllis by Thyrsis, Amaryllis by Damon so beloved, that there is in our village or its environs no person, nor in the district a wood, meadow, spring or stream, that does not know full well their warm and modest love.'
'Cease at present, Teolinda,' said Florisa, 'to praise these shepherds to us, for it profits us more to hear what they sing as they come, since it seems to me that they have no less charm in their voices than in the music of their instruments.'
'What will you say,' Teolinda then replied, 'when you see all this surpassed by the excellence of their poetry, which is of such a kind that for the one it has already gained the epithet of divine, and for the other that of superhuman?'
The shepherdesses, whilst engaged in this discourse, saw, on the slope of the vale along which they themselves were going, two shepherds appear, of gallant bearing and abounding spirit, one a little older than the other; so well dressed, though in shepherd's garb, that in their carriage and appearance they seemed more like brave courtiers than mountain herdsmen. Each wore a well-cut garment of finest white wool, trimmed with tawny red and grey, colours which their shepherdesses fancied most. Each had hanging from his shoulder a wallet no less handsome and adorned than the garments. They came crowned with green laurel and cool ivy, with their twisted crooks placed under their arms. They brought no companion, and came so rapt in their music that they were for a long while without seeing the fixed shepherdesses, who were wending their way along the same slope, wondering not a little at the gentle grace and charm of the shepherds, who, with voices attuned to the same chant, one beginning and the other replying, sang this which follows:
DAMON. THYRSIS.
DAMON.
Thyrsis, who dost in loneliness departWith steps emboldened, though against thy will,From yonder light wherewith remains thine heart,Why dost thou not the air with mourning fill?So great indeed thy cause is to complainOf the fierce troubler of thy life so still.
Thyrsis, who dost in loneliness departWith steps emboldened, though against thy will,From yonder light wherewith remains thine heart,Why dost thou not the air with mourning fill?So great indeed thy cause is to complainOf the fierce troubler of thy life so still.
Thyrsis, who dost in loneliness depart
With steps emboldened, though against thy will,
From yonder light wherewith remains thine heart,
Why dost thou not the air with mourning fill?
So great indeed thy cause is to complain
Of the fierce troubler of thy life so still.
THYRSIS.
Damon, once let the life be rent in twain,If the grief-stricken body go away,And yet the higher half behind remain,What virtue or what being will essayMy tongue to move, already counted dead?For where my soul was, there my life doth stay.I see, I hear, I feel, 'tis truth indeed,And yet I am a phantom formed by love,My only stay is hope that hath not fled.
Damon, once let the life be rent in twain,If the grief-stricken body go away,And yet the higher half behind remain,What virtue or what being will essayMy tongue to move, already counted dead?For where my soul was, there my life doth stay.I see, I hear, I feel, 'tis truth indeed,And yet I am a phantom formed by love,My only stay is hope that hath not fled.
Damon, once let the life be rent in twain,
If the grief-stricken body go away,
And yet the higher half behind remain,
What virtue or what being will essay
My tongue to move, already counted dead?
For where my soul was, there my life doth stay.
I see, I hear, I feel, 'tis truth indeed,
And yet I am a phantom formed by love,
My only stay is hope that hath not fled.
DAMON.
Oh, happy Thyrsis, how thy lot doth moveMy soul to envy! rightly, for I knowThat it doth rise all lovers' lots above.Absence alone displeaseth thee, and soFirm and secure thou hast in Love a stayWherewith thy soul rejoiceth 'midst its woe.Alas! where'er I go I fall a preyBeneath the chilly scornful hand of fear,Or with its cruel lance disdain doth slay!Count life as death; although it doth appearLiving to thee, 'tis like a lamp that diesAnd as it dies, the flame burneth more clear.My wearied soul doth not in time that flies,Nor in the means that absence offers, findIts consolation 'midst its miseries.
Oh, happy Thyrsis, how thy lot doth moveMy soul to envy! rightly, for I knowThat it doth rise all lovers' lots above.Absence alone displeaseth thee, and soFirm and secure thou hast in Love a stayWherewith thy soul rejoiceth 'midst its woe.Alas! where'er I go I fall a preyBeneath the chilly scornful hand of fear,Or with its cruel lance disdain doth slay!Count life as death; although it doth appearLiving to thee, 'tis like a lamp that diesAnd as it dies, the flame burneth more clear.My wearied soul doth not in time that flies,Nor in the means that absence offers, findIts consolation 'midst its miseries.
Oh, happy Thyrsis, how thy lot doth move
My soul to envy! rightly, for I know
That it doth rise all lovers' lots above.
Absence alone displeaseth thee, and so
Firm and secure thou hast in Love a stay
Wherewith thy soul rejoiceth 'midst its woe.
Alas! where'er I go I fall a prey
Beneath the chilly scornful hand of fear,
Or with its cruel lance disdain doth slay!
Count life as death; although it doth appear
Living to thee, 'tis like a lamp that dies
And as it dies, the flame burneth more clear.
My wearied soul doth not in time that flies,
Nor in the means that absence offers, find
Its consolation 'midst its miseries.
THYRSIS.
Love that is firm and pure hath ne'er declinedThrough bitter absence; rather memoryFosters its growth by faith within the mind.The perfect lover sees no remedyRelief unto the loving load to give,However short or long the absence be.For memory, which only doth perceiveWhat Love hath set within the soul, doth showThe lovèd image to the mind alive.And then in soothing silence makes him knowHis fortune, good or ill, as from her eyeA loving or a loveless glance doth go.And if thou markest that I do not sigh,'Tis that my Phyllis doth my singing guide,Here in my breast my Phyllis I descry.
Love that is firm and pure hath ne'er declinedThrough bitter absence; rather memoryFosters its growth by faith within the mind.The perfect lover sees no remedyRelief unto the loving load to give,However short or long the absence be.For memory, which only doth perceiveWhat Love hath set within the soul, doth showThe lovèd image to the mind alive.And then in soothing silence makes him knowHis fortune, good or ill, as from her eyeA loving or a loveless glance doth go.And if thou markest that I do not sigh,'Tis that my Phyllis doth my singing guide,Here in my breast my Phyllis I descry.
Love that is firm and pure hath ne'er declined
Through bitter absence; rather memory
Fosters its growth by faith within the mind.
The perfect lover sees no remedy
Relief unto the loving load to give,
However short or long the absence be.
For memory, which only doth perceive
What Love hath set within the soul, doth show
The lovèd image to the mind alive.
And then in soothing silence makes him know
His fortune, good or ill, as from her eye
A loving or a loveless glance doth go.
And if thou markest that I do not sigh,
'Tis that my Phyllis doth my singing guide,
Here in my breast my Phyllis I descry.
DAMON.
If in her lovely face thou hadst espiedSigns of displeasure when thou didst departFar from the joy that thee hath satisfied,Full well I know, my Thyrsis, that thine heartWould be as full as mine of bitter woe—Love's bliss was thine, but mine Love's cruel smart—
If in her lovely face thou hadst espiedSigns of displeasure when thou didst departFar from the joy that thee hath satisfied,Full well I know, my Thyrsis, that thine heartWould be as full as mine of bitter woe—Love's bliss was thine, but mine Love's cruel smart—
If in her lovely face thou hadst espied
Signs of displeasure when thou didst depart
Far from the joy that thee hath satisfied,
Full well I know, my Thyrsis, that thine heart
Would be as full as mine of bitter woe—
Love's bliss was thine, but mine Love's cruel smart—
THYRSIS.
With words like these I pass the time, and so,Damon, I temper absence's extreme,And gladly do remain, or come, or go.For she who was from birth a living theme,Type of the deathless beauty in the skies,Worthy of marble, temple, diadem,Even my Phyllis, blinds th' covetous eyes,With her rare virtue and her modest zeal,So that I fear not; none will wrest the prize.The strait subjection that my soul doth feelBefore hers, and the purpose raised on high,That in her worship doth its goal reveal,And more, the fact that Phyllis knows that ILove her, and doth return my love—all theseBanish my grief and bring felicity.
With words like these I pass the time, and so,Damon, I temper absence's extreme,And gladly do remain, or come, or go.For she who was from birth a living theme,Type of the deathless beauty in the skies,Worthy of marble, temple, diadem,Even my Phyllis, blinds th' covetous eyes,With her rare virtue and her modest zeal,So that I fear not; none will wrest the prize.The strait subjection that my soul doth feelBefore hers, and the purpose raised on high,That in her worship doth its goal reveal,And more, the fact that Phyllis knows that ILove her, and doth return my love—all theseBanish my grief and bring felicity.
With words like these I pass the time, and so,
Damon, I temper absence's extreme,
And gladly do remain, or come, or go.
For she who was from birth a living theme,
Type of the deathless beauty in the skies,
Worthy of marble, temple, diadem,
Even my Phyllis, blinds th' covetous eyes,
With her rare virtue and her modest zeal,
So that I fear not; none will wrest the prize.
The strait subjection that my soul doth feel
Before hers, and the purpose raised on high,
That in her worship doth its goal reveal,
And more, the fact that Phyllis knows that I
Love her, and doth return my love—all these
Banish my grief and bring felicity.
DAMON.
Blest Thyrsis, Thyrsis crowned with happiness!Mayst thou enjoy for ages yet to comeThy bliss 'midst Love's delight and certain peace.But I, whom brief and unrelenting doomTo such a doubtful pass as this hath led,In merit poor, in cares rich, near the tomb.'Tis good that I should die, since, being dead,Nor cruel Amaryllis shall I fearNor Love ungrateful whereby I am sped.Oh, fairer than the heavens, or sun's bright sphere,Yet harder far than adamant to me,Ready to hurt, but slow to bring me cheer,What wind from south or north or east on theeHarshness did blow, that thou didst thus ordain,That from thy presence I should ever flee?I, shepherdess, in lands across the mainFar off shall die—thy will thou hast avowed—Doomed unto death, to fetter, yoke and chain.
Blest Thyrsis, Thyrsis crowned with happiness!Mayst thou enjoy for ages yet to comeThy bliss 'midst Love's delight and certain peace.But I, whom brief and unrelenting doomTo such a doubtful pass as this hath led,In merit poor, in cares rich, near the tomb.'Tis good that I should die, since, being dead,Nor cruel Amaryllis shall I fearNor Love ungrateful whereby I am sped.Oh, fairer than the heavens, or sun's bright sphere,Yet harder far than adamant to me,Ready to hurt, but slow to bring me cheer,What wind from south or north or east on theeHarshness did blow, that thou didst thus ordain,That from thy presence I should ever flee?I, shepherdess, in lands across the mainFar off shall die—thy will thou hast avowed—Doomed unto death, to fetter, yoke and chain.
Blest Thyrsis, Thyrsis crowned with happiness!
Mayst thou enjoy for ages yet to come
Thy bliss 'midst Love's delight and certain peace.
But I, whom brief and unrelenting doom
To such a doubtful pass as this hath led,
In merit poor, in cares rich, near the tomb.
'Tis good that I should die, since, being dead,
Nor cruel Amaryllis shall I fear
Nor Love ungrateful whereby I am sped.
Oh, fairer than the heavens, or sun's bright sphere,
Yet harder far than adamant to me,
Ready to hurt, but slow to bring me cheer,
What wind from south or north or east on thee
Harshness did blow, that thou didst thus ordain,
That from thy presence I should ever flee?
I, shepherdess, in lands across the main
Far off shall die—thy will thou hast avowed—
Doomed unto death, to fetter, yoke and chain.
THYRSIS.
Since Heaven in its mercy hath endowedThee, Damon, with such blessings, dearest friend,With intellect so sprightly and so proud,Yet it with thy lament and sorrow blend,Remember that the sun's all-scorching rayAnd ice's chill at last shall have an end.Destiny does not always choose one wayWhereby with smooth, reposeful steps to bringHappiness to us—mark the words I say—For sometimes by unthought-of suffering,In seeming far from pleasure and from joy,It leads us to the blisses poets sing.But come, good friend, thy memory employUpon the modest joys that Love once gave,Pledges of victory without alloy.And, if thou canst, a pastime seek, to saveThy soul from brooding, whilst the time of scornGoes by, and we attain the boon we crave.Unto the ice that by degrees doth burn,Unto the fire that chills beyond degree,What bard shall place degree thereto, or bourne?Vainly he wearies, vainly watcheth heWho, out of favour, yet Love's web doth seekTo cut according to his fantasy;He is, though strong in Love, in fortune weak.
Since Heaven in its mercy hath endowedThee, Damon, with such blessings, dearest friend,With intellect so sprightly and so proud,Yet it with thy lament and sorrow blend,Remember that the sun's all-scorching rayAnd ice's chill at last shall have an end.Destiny does not always choose one wayWhereby with smooth, reposeful steps to bringHappiness to us—mark the words I say—For sometimes by unthought-of suffering,In seeming far from pleasure and from joy,It leads us to the blisses poets sing.But come, good friend, thy memory employUpon the modest joys that Love once gave,Pledges of victory without alloy.And, if thou canst, a pastime seek, to saveThy soul from brooding, whilst the time of scornGoes by, and we attain the boon we crave.Unto the ice that by degrees doth burn,Unto the fire that chills beyond degree,What bard shall place degree thereto, or bourne?Vainly he wearies, vainly watcheth heWho, out of favour, yet Love's web doth seekTo cut according to his fantasy;He is, though strong in Love, in fortune weak.
Since Heaven in its mercy hath endowed
Thee, Damon, with such blessings, dearest friend,
With intellect so sprightly and so proud,
Yet it with thy lament and sorrow blend,
Remember that the sun's all-scorching ray
And ice's chill at last shall have an end.
Destiny does not always choose one way
Whereby with smooth, reposeful steps to bring
Happiness to us—mark the words I say—
For sometimes by unthought-of suffering,
In seeming far from pleasure and from joy,
It leads us to the blisses poets sing.
But come, good friend, thy memory employ
Upon the modest joys that Love once gave,
Pledges of victory without alloy.
And, if thou canst, a pastime seek, to save
Thy soul from brooding, whilst the time of scorn
Goes by, and we attain the boon we crave.
Unto the ice that by degrees doth burn,
Unto the fire that chills beyond degree,
What bard shall place degree thereto, or bourne?
Vainly he wearies, vainly watcheth he
Who, out of favour, yet Love's web doth seek
To cut according to his fantasy;
He is, though strong in Love, in fortune weak.
Here ceased the exquisite song of the graceful shepherds, but not as regards the pleasure the shepherdesses had felt at listening to it; rather they would have wished it not to end so soon, for it was one of those lays that are but rarely heard. At this moment the two gallant shepherds bent their steps in the direction where the shepherdesses were, whereat Teolinda was grieved, for she feared to be recognised by them; and for this reason she asked Galatea that they might go away from that place. She did it, and the shepherds passed by, and as they passed Galatea heard Thyrsis saying to Damon:
'These banks, friend Damon, are those on which the fair Galatea grazes her flocks, and to which the loving Elicio brings his, your intimate and special friend, to whom may fortune give such issue in his love as his honourable and good desires deserve. For many days I have not known to what straits his lot has brought him; but from what I have heard tell of the coy disposition of discreet Galatea, for whom he is dying, I fear he must be full of woe long before he is content.'
'I would not be astonished at this,' replied Damon, 'for with all the graces and special gifts wherewith Heaven has enriched Galatea, it has after all made her a woman, in which frail object is not always the gratitude that is due, and which he needs whose smallest risk for them is life. What I have heard tell of Elicio's love is that he adores Galatea without passing beyond the bounds that are due to her modesty, and that Galatea's discretion is so great that she does not give proofs of loving or of loathing Elicio; and so the hapless swain must go on subject to a thousand contrary chances, waiting on time and fortune (means hopeless enough) to shorten or lengthen his life, but which are more likely to shorten it than to sustain it.'
So far Galatea could hear what the shepherds, as they went along, said of her and of Elicio, whereat she felt no small pleasure, understanding that what report published of her affairs was what was due to her pure intent; and from that moment she determined not to do for Elicio anything that might give report a chance of speaking false in what it published of her thoughts. At this moment the two brave shepherds were gradually wending their way with loitering steps towards the village, desiring to be present at the nuptials of the happy shepherd Daranio, who was marrying Silveria of the green eyes, and this was one of the reasons why they had left their flocks, and were coming to Galatea's hamlet. But, when but little of the way remained to be covered, they heard on its right side the sound of a rebeck which sounded harmoniously and sweetly; and Damon stopping caught Thyrsis by the arm, and said to him:
'Stay, listen a while, Thyrsis, for if my ears do not deceive me, the sound that reaches them is that from the rebeck of my good friend Elicio, on whom Nature bestowed so much charm in many different arts, as you will hear if you listen to him, and learn if you speak with him.'
'Think not, Damon,' replied Thyrsis, 'that I have yet to learn Elicio's good qualities, for days ago fame clearly revealed them to me. But be silent now, and let us listen to see if he sings aught that may give us some sure token of his present fortune.'
'You say well,' answered Damon, 'but it will be necessary, the better to hear him, for us to go in among these branches so that we may listen to him more closely without being seen by him.'
They did so, and placed themselves in so good a position that no word that Elicio said or sang, failed to be heard by them and even noted. Elicio was in the company of his friend Erastro, from whom he was rarely separated by reason of the pleasure and enjoyment he received from his excellent converse, and all or most of the day was spent by them in singing and playing their instruments, and at this moment, Elicio playing his rebeck and Erastro his pipe, the former began these verses:
ELICIO.
I yield unto the thought within my breastAnd in my grief find rest;Glory no more in view,I follow her whom fancy doth pursue,For her I ever in my fancy see,From all the bonds of Love exempt and free.Unto the soul's eye Heaven grants not the graceTo see the peaceful faceOf her who is my foe,Glory and pride of all that Heaven can show;When I behold her with my body's eye,The sun have I beheld, and blind am I.Oh bitter bonds of Love, though fraught with pleasure!Oh, mighty beyond measure,Love's hand! that thus couldst stealThe bliss which thou didst promise to revealUnto mine eyes, when, in my freedom's hour,I mocked at thee, thy bow and quiver's power.What loveliness! what hands as white as snow,Thou tyrant, didst thou show!How wearied wert thou grown,When first the noose upon my neck was thrown!And even thou hadst fallen in the frayWere Galatea not alive to-day.She, she alone, on earth alone was foundTo deal the cruel woundWithin the heart of me.And make a vassal of the fancy free,That would as steel or marble be displayed,Did it not yield itself to love the maid.What charter can protect, what monarch's graceAgainst the cruel face,More beauteous than the sun,Of her who hath my happiness undone?Ah face, that dost revealOn earth the bliss that Heaven doth conceal!How comes it then that nature could uniteSuch rigour and despiteWith so much loveliness,Such worth and yet a mood so pitiless?Such opposites to joinMy happiness consents—the hurt is mine.Easy it is that my brief lot should seeSweet life in unityWith bitter death, and findIts evil nestling where its good reclined.Amidst these different waysI see that hope, but not desire decays.
I yield unto the thought within my breastAnd in my grief find rest;Glory no more in view,I follow her whom fancy doth pursue,For her I ever in my fancy see,From all the bonds of Love exempt and free.Unto the soul's eye Heaven grants not the graceTo see the peaceful faceOf her who is my foe,Glory and pride of all that Heaven can show;When I behold her with my body's eye,The sun have I beheld, and blind am I.Oh bitter bonds of Love, though fraught with pleasure!Oh, mighty beyond measure,Love's hand! that thus couldst stealThe bliss which thou didst promise to revealUnto mine eyes, when, in my freedom's hour,I mocked at thee, thy bow and quiver's power.What loveliness! what hands as white as snow,Thou tyrant, didst thou show!How wearied wert thou grown,When first the noose upon my neck was thrown!And even thou hadst fallen in the frayWere Galatea not alive to-day.She, she alone, on earth alone was foundTo deal the cruel woundWithin the heart of me.And make a vassal of the fancy free,That would as steel or marble be displayed,Did it not yield itself to love the maid.What charter can protect, what monarch's graceAgainst the cruel face,More beauteous than the sun,Of her who hath my happiness undone?Ah face, that dost revealOn earth the bliss that Heaven doth conceal!How comes it then that nature could uniteSuch rigour and despiteWith so much loveliness,Such worth and yet a mood so pitiless?Such opposites to joinMy happiness consents—the hurt is mine.Easy it is that my brief lot should seeSweet life in unityWith bitter death, and findIts evil nestling where its good reclined.Amidst these different waysI see that hope, but not desire decays.
I yield unto the thought within my breastAnd in my grief find rest;Glory no more in view,I follow her whom fancy doth pursue,For her I ever in my fancy see,From all the bonds of Love exempt and free.
I yield unto the thought within my breast
And in my grief find rest;
Glory no more in view,
I follow her whom fancy doth pursue,
For her I ever in my fancy see,
From all the bonds of Love exempt and free.
Unto the soul's eye Heaven grants not the graceTo see the peaceful faceOf her who is my foe,Glory and pride of all that Heaven can show;When I behold her with my body's eye,The sun have I beheld, and blind am I.
Unto the soul's eye Heaven grants not the grace
To see the peaceful face
Of her who is my foe,
Glory and pride of all that Heaven can show;
When I behold her with my body's eye,
The sun have I beheld, and blind am I.
Oh bitter bonds of Love, though fraught with pleasure!Oh, mighty beyond measure,Love's hand! that thus couldst stealThe bliss which thou didst promise to revealUnto mine eyes, when, in my freedom's hour,I mocked at thee, thy bow and quiver's power.
Oh bitter bonds of Love, though fraught with pleasure!
Oh, mighty beyond measure,
Love's hand! that thus couldst steal
The bliss which thou didst promise to reveal
Unto mine eyes, when, in my freedom's hour,
I mocked at thee, thy bow and quiver's power.
What loveliness! what hands as white as snow,Thou tyrant, didst thou show!How wearied wert thou grown,When first the noose upon my neck was thrown!And even thou hadst fallen in the frayWere Galatea not alive to-day.
What loveliness! what hands as white as snow,
Thou tyrant, didst thou show!
How wearied wert thou grown,
When first the noose upon my neck was thrown!
And even thou hadst fallen in the fray
Were Galatea not alive to-day.
She, she alone, on earth alone was foundTo deal the cruel woundWithin the heart of me.And make a vassal of the fancy free,That would as steel or marble be displayed,Did it not yield itself to love the maid.
She, she alone, on earth alone was found
To deal the cruel wound
Within the heart of me.
And make a vassal of the fancy free,
That would as steel or marble be displayed,
Did it not yield itself to love the maid.
What charter can protect, what monarch's graceAgainst the cruel face,More beauteous than the sun,Of her who hath my happiness undone?Ah face, that dost revealOn earth the bliss that Heaven doth conceal!
What charter can protect, what monarch's grace
Against the cruel face,
More beauteous than the sun,
Of her who hath my happiness undone?
Ah face, that dost reveal
On earth the bliss that Heaven doth conceal!
How comes it then that nature could uniteSuch rigour and despiteWith so much loveliness,Such worth and yet a mood so pitiless?Such opposites to joinMy happiness consents—the hurt is mine.
How comes it then that nature could unite
Such rigour and despite
With so much loveliness,
Such worth and yet a mood so pitiless?
Such opposites to join
My happiness consents—the hurt is mine.
Easy it is that my brief lot should seeSweet life in unityWith bitter death, and findIts evil nestling where its good reclined.Amidst these different waysI see that hope, but not desire decays.
Easy it is that my brief lot should see
Sweet life in unity
With bitter death, and find
Its evil nestling where its good reclined.
Amidst these different ways
I see that hope, but not desire decays.
The loving shepherd sang no more, nor did Thyrsis and Damon wish to stay longer, but showing themselves unexpectedly and with spirit, came to where Elicio was. When he saw them he recognised his friend Damon, and going forward with incredible joy to welcome him, said to him:
'What fortune, discreet Damon, has ordained that by your presence you should bestow so fair a fortune on these banks which have long wished for you?'
'It cannot be but fair,' answered Damon, 'since it has brought me to see you, oh Elicio, a thing on which I set a value as great as is the desire I had for it, and as long absence and the friendship I cherish for you forced me to do. But if you can for any reason say what you have said, it is because you have before you the famous Thyrsis, glory and honour of the Castilian soil.'
When Elicio heard him say that this was Thyrsis, to him only known by fame, he welcomed him with great courtesy, and said to him:
'Your pleasing countenance, renowned Thyrsis, agrees well with what loud fame in lands near and far proclaims of your worth and discretion: and so, seeing that your writings havefilled me with wonder and led me to desire to know you and serve you, you can henceforward count and treat me as a true friend.'
'What I gain thereby,' replied Thyrsis, 'is so well known that in vain would fame proclaim what the affection you bear me makes you say that it proclaims of me, if I did not recognise the favour you do me in seeking to place me in the number of your friends; and since between those who are friends words of compliment must be superfluous, let ours cease at this point, and let deeds give witness of our good-will.'
'Mine will ever be to serve you,' replied Elicio, 'as you will see, oh Thyrsis, if time or fortune place me in a position in any way suitable for it; for that I now occupy, though I would not change it for another offering greater advantages, is such that it scarcely leaves me free to proffer what I desire.'
'Since you set your desire on so lofty a goal as you do,' said Damon, 'I would hold it madness to endeavour to lower it to an object that might be less; and so, friend Elicio, do not speak ill of the condition in which you find yourself, for I assure you that if it were compared with mine, I would find occasion to feel towards you more envy than pity.'
'It is quite clear, Damon,' said Elicio, 'that you have been away from these banks for many a day, since you do not know what love makes me feel here, and if it is not so, you cannot know or have experience of Galatea's disposition, for if you had noted it, you would change into pity the envy you might feel for me.'
'What new thing can he expect from Galatea's disposition,' replied Damon, 'who has experienced that of Amaryllis?'
'If your stay on these banks,' answered Elicio, 'be as long as I wish, you, Damon, will learn and see on them, and on others will hear, how her cruelty and gentleness go in equal balance, extremes which end the life of him whose misfortune has brought him to the pass of adoring her.'
'On our Henares's banks,' said Thyrsis at this point, 'Galatea had more fame for beauty than for cruelty; but above all, it is said that she is discreet; and if this be true, as it ought to be, from her discretion springs self-knowledge, and from self-knowledge self-esteem, and from self-esteem desire not to stray, and from desire not to stray comes desire not to gratify herself. And you, Elicio, seeing how ill she responds to your wishes, give the name of cruelty to that which you should have called honourable reticence; and I do not wonder, for it is, after all, the condition proper to lovers who find small favour.'
'You would be right in what you have said, oh Thyrsis,' replied Elicio, 'if my desires were to wander from the path befitting her honour and modesty; but if they are so measured, as is due to her worth and reputation, what avails such disdain,such bitter and peevish replies, such open withdrawal of the face from him who has set all his glory on merely seeing it? Ah, Thyrsis, Thyrsis, how love must have placed you on the summit of its joys, since with so calm a spirit you speak of its effects! I do not know that what you say now goes well with what you once said when you sang: