The joyful uproar there was that night in the village, on the occasion of Daranio's wedding, did not prevent Elicio, Thyrsis, Damon and Erastro from settling down together in a place where, without being disturbed by anyone, Silerio might continue the story he had begun, and he, when all together had given him pleasing silence, continued in this wise:
'From the feigned stanzas to Blanca, which I have told you Irepeated to Timbrio, he was satisfied that my pain proceeded not from love of Nisida, but of her sister; and with this assurance, begging my forgiveness for the false idea he had had about me, he again entrusted me with his cure; and so I, forgetful of my own, did not neglect in the least what concerned his. Some days passed, during which fortune did not show me an opportunity as open as I could wish for disclosing to Nisida the truth of my thoughts, though she kept asking me how it was going with my friend in his love-affair, and if his lady as yet had any knowledge of it. In reply to this I said to her that the fear of offending her still kept me from venturing to tell her anything; whereat Nisida was very angry, calling me coward and of little sense, and adding to this that since I was playing the coward, either Timbrio did not feel the grief I reported of him, or I was not so true a friend of his as I said. All this induced me to make up my mind and reveal myself at the first opportunity, which I did one day when she was alone. She listened with strange silence to all I had to say to her, and I, as best I could, extolled to her Timbrio's worth, and the true love he had for her, which was so strong that it had brought me to take up so lowly a pursuit as that of a buffoon, merely to have an opportunity of telling her what I was telling her. To these I added other reasonings which Nisida must needs have thought were not without reason; but she would not show by words then what she could not afterwards keep concealed by deeds; rather with dignity and rare modesty she reproved my boldness, rebuked my daring, blamed my words and daunted my confidence, but not in such a way as to banish me from her presence, which was what I feared most; she merely ended by telling me to have henceforward more regard for what was due to her modesty, and to see to it that the artifice of my false dress should not be discovered—an ending this which closed and finished the tragedy of my life, since I understood thereby that Nisida would give ear to Timbrio's plaints. In what breast could or can be contained the extremity of grief that was then concealed in mine, since the end of its greatest desire was the finish and end of its happiness? I was gladdened by the good beginning I had given to Timbrio's cure, and this gladness redounded to my hurt, for it seemed to me, as was the truth, that, on seeing Nisida in another's power, my own was ended. Oh mighty force of true friendship, how far dost thou extend! how far didst thou constrain me! since I myself, impelled by thy constraint, by my own contriving whetted the knife which was to cut short my hopes, which, dying in my soul, lived and revived in Timbrio's, when he learned from me all that had passed with Nisida. But her way with him and me was so coy that she never showed at all that she was pleased with my solicitude or Timbrio's love, nor yet was she disdainful in such a manner that her displeasure andaversion made us both abandon the enterprise. This went on till it came to Timbrio's knowledge that his enemy Pransiles, the gentleman he had wronged in Xeres, being desirous of satisfying his honour, was sending him a challenge, indicating to him a free and secure field on an estate in the Duke of Gravina's territory, and giving him a term of six months from that date to the day of the combat. The care induced by this news did not cause him to become careless in what concerned his love-affair, but rather, by fresh solicitude on my part and services on his, Nisida came to demean herself in such a way that she did not show herself disdainful though Timbrio looked at her and visited at the house of her parents, preserving in all a decorum as honourable as befitted her worth. The term of the challenge now drawing near, Timbrio, seeing that the journey was inevitable for him, determined to depart, and before doing so, he wrote to Nisida a letter, of such a kind that with it he ended in a moment what I during many months and with many words had not begun. I have the letter in my memory, and to render my story complete, I will not omit to tell you that it ran thus:
TIMBRIO TONISIDA
All hail to Nisida, from a loving swainWho is not hale nor ever hopes to be,Until his health from thine own hand he gain.These lines, I fear, will surely gain for me,Though they be written in my very blood,The abhorred reproach of importunity.And yet I may not, e'en although I would,Escape Love's torment, for my passions bearMy soul along amidst their cruel flood.A fiery daring and a chilly fearEncompass me about, and I remain,Whilst thou dost read this letter, sad and drear;For when I write to thee, I do but gainRuin if thou dost scorn my words, ah woe!And spurn my awkward phrases with disdain.True Heaven is my witness and doth knowIf I have not adored thee from the hourI saw the lovely face that is my foe.I saw thee and adored—What wouldst thou more?The peerless semblance of an angel fairWhat man is there but straightway would adore?Upon thy beauty, in the world so rare,My soul so keenly gazed that on thy faceIt could not rest its piercing gaze, for thereWithin thy soul it was upon the traceOf mighty loveliness, a paradiseGiving assurance of a greater grace.On these rich pinions thou to Heaven dost riseAnd on the earth thou sendest dread and painUnto the simple, wonder to the wise.Happy the soul that doth such bliss contain,And no less happy he who to Love's warYields up his own that blissful soul to gain!Debtor am I unto my fatal star,That bade me yield to one who doth possessWithin so fair a frame a soul so fair.To me thy mood, oh lady, doth confessThat I was wrong when I aspired so high,And covereth with fear my hopefulness.But on my honest purpose I rely,I turn a bold face to despondency,New breath I gain when I to death am nigh.They say that without hope Love cannot be.'Tis mere opinion: for I hope no moreAnd yet the more Love's force doth master me.I love thee for thy goodness, and adore,Thy beauty draws me captive in its train,It was the net Love stretched in love's first hourThat with rare subtlety it might constrainThis soul of mine, careless and fancy-free,Unto the amorous knot, to know its strain.Love his dominion and his tyrannyWithin some breasts sustains by beauty's aid,But not within the curious fantasy,Which looks not on Love's narrow noose displayedIn ringlets of fine gold that satisfyThe heart of him who views them undismayed,Nor on the breast that he who turns his eyeOn breast alone, doth alabaster callNor on the wondrous neck of ivory;But it regards the hidden all in allAnd contemplates the thousand charms displayedWithin the soul that succour and enthral.The charms that are but mortal, doomed to fade,Unto the soul immortal bring not balm,Unless it leave the light and seek the shade.Thy peerless virtue carrieth off the palm,It maketh of my thoughts its spoil and prey,And all my lustful passions it doth calm.They are content and willingly obey,For by the worth thy merits ever showThey seek their hard and bitter pain to weigh.I plough the sea and in the sand I sowWhen I am doomed by passion's mystic stressBeyond the viewing of thy face to go.I know how high thou art; my lowlinessI see, and where the distance is so great,One may not hope, nor do I hope possess.Wherefore I find no cure to heal my state,Numerous my hardships as the stars of night,Or as the tribes the earth that populate.I understand what for my soul is right,I know the better, and the worse attain,Borne by the love wherein I take delight.But now, fair Nisida, the point I gain,Which I with mortal anguish do desire,Where I shall end the sorrow I sustain.Uplifted is the hostile arm in ire,The keen and ruthless sword awaiteth me,Each with thine anger 'gainst me doth conspire.Thy wrathful will soon, soon, avenged will beUpon the vain presumption of my will,Which was without a reason spurned by thee.No other pangs nor agonies would fillWith agitation dread my mournful thought,Though greater than death's agonizing chill,If I could in my short and bitter lotBut see thee towards my heart-felt wishes kind,As the reverse I see, that thou art not.Narrow the path that leads to bliss, I find,But broad and spacious that which leads to pain;By my misfortune this hath been designed,And death, that buttressed is on thy disdain,By this in anger and in haste doth run,Eager its triumph o'er my life to gain.By yonder path my bliss, well-nigh undone,Departs, crushed by the sternness thou dost show,Which needs must end my brief life all too soon.My fate hath raised me to the height of woeWhere I begin e'en now to dread the scornAnd anger of my sore-offended foe.'Tis that I see the fire wherein I burnIs ice within thy breast, and this is whyAt the last moment I a coward turn.For if thou dost not show thee my ally,Of whom will my weak hand be not afraid,Though strength and skill the more accompany?What Roman warrior, if thou dost but aid,Or what Greek captain would oppose my might?Nay, from his purpose he would shrink dismayed.I would escape e'en from the direst plight,And from death's cruel hand away I'd bearThe spoils of victory in his despite.Thou, thou, alone my lot aloft canst rearAbove all human glory, or abaseUnto the depths below—no bliss is there.For if, as pure Love had the power to raise,Fortune were minded to uphold my lotSafe 'midst the dangers of its lofty place,My hope which lieth where it hopeth naught,Itself would see exalted to a heightAbove the heaven where reigns the moon, in thought.Such am I that I now account delightThe evil that thine angry scorn doth giveUnto my soul in such a wondrous plight,If in thy memory I might see I live,And that perchance thou dost remember, sweet,To deal the wound which I as bliss receive.'Twere easier far for me the tale completeTo tell of the white sands beside the sea,Or of the stars that make the eighth heaven their seat,Than all the pain, the grief, the anxiety,Whereto the rigour of thy cruel disdainCondemns me, though I have not wounded thee.Seek not the measure of thy worth to gainFrom my humility; if we compareLoftiness with thee, 'twill on earth remain.Such as I am I love thee, and I dareTo say that I advance in loving sureUnto the highest point in Love's career,Wherefore in merit I am not so poorThat as an enemy thou shouldst me treat—Rather, methinks, my guerdon should endure.So great a cruelty doth ill befitSuch loveliness, and where we do perceiveSuch worth, there doth ingratitude ill sit.On thee fain would I call account to giveOf a soul yielded thee; where was it thrown?How, when my soul is gone, do I yet live?Didst thou not deign to make my heart thy throne?What can he give thee more who loves thee more?Herein how well was thy presumption shown!I have been soulless from the earliest hourI saw thee for my bliss and for my pain,For all were pain if I saw thee no more.There I of my free heart gave thee the rein,Thou rulest me, for thee alone I live,And yet thy power can more than this attain.Within the flame of pure Love I reviveAnd am undone, since from the death of LoveI, like a phœnix, straightway life receive.This would I have thee think all things above,In faith of this my faith, that it is sureThat I live glowing in the fire of Love,And that thou canst e'en after death restoreMe unto life, and in a moment guideFrom the wild ocean to the peaceful shore.For Love in thee and power dwell side by side,And are united, reigning over me.They waver not nor falter in their pride—And here I end lest I should weary thee.
All hail to Nisida, from a loving swainWho is not hale nor ever hopes to be,Until his health from thine own hand he gain.These lines, I fear, will surely gain for me,Though they be written in my very blood,The abhorred reproach of importunity.And yet I may not, e'en although I would,Escape Love's torment, for my passions bearMy soul along amidst their cruel flood.A fiery daring and a chilly fearEncompass me about, and I remain,Whilst thou dost read this letter, sad and drear;For when I write to thee, I do but gainRuin if thou dost scorn my words, ah woe!And spurn my awkward phrases with disdain.True Heaven is my witness and doth knowIf I have not adored thee from the hourI saw the lovely face that is my foe.I saw thee and adored—What wouldst thou more?The peerless semblance of an angel fairWhat man is there but straightway would adore?Upon thy beauty, in the world so rare,My soul so keenly gazed that on thy faceIt could not rest its piercing gaze, for thereWithin thy soul it was upon the traceOf mighty loveliness, a paradiseGiving assurance of a greater grace.On these rich pinions thou to Heaven dost riseAnd on the earth thou sendest dread and painUnto the simple, wonder to the wise.Happy the soul that doth such bliss contain,And no less happy he who to Love's warYields up his own that blissful soul to gain!Debtor am I unto my fatal star,That bade me yield to one who doth possessWithin so fair a frame a soul so fair.To me thy mood, oh lady, doth confessThat I was wrong when I aspired so high,And covereth with fear my hopefulness.But on my honest purpose I rely,I turn a bold face to despondency,New breath I gain when I to death am nigh.They say that without hope Love cannot be.'Tis mere opinion: for I hope no moreAnd yet the more Love's force doth master me.I love thee for thy goodness, and adore,Thy beauty draws me captive in its train,It was the net Love stretched in love's first hourThat with rare subtlety it might constrainThis soul of mine, careless and fancy-free,Unto the amorous knot, to know its strain.Love his dominion and his tyrannyWithin some breasts sustains by beauty's aid,But not within the curious fantasy,Which looks not on Love's narrow noose displayedIn ringlets of fine gold that satisfyThe heart of him who views them undismayed,Nor on the breast that he who turns his eyeOn breast alone, doth alabaster callNor on the wondrous neck of ivory;But it regards the hidden all in allAnd contemplates the thousand charms displayedWithin the soul that succour and enthral.The charms that are but mortal, doomed to fade,Unto the soul immortal bring not balm,Unless it leave the light and seek the shade.Thy peerless virtue carrieth off the palm,It maketh of my thoughts its spoil and prey,And all my lustful passions it doth calm.They are content and willingly obey,For by the worth thy merits ever showThey seek their hard and bitter pain to weigh.I plough the sea and in the sand I sowWhen I am doomed by passion's mystic stressBeyond the viewing of thy face to go.I know how high thou art; my lowlinessI see, and where the distance is so great,One may not hope, nor do I hope possess.Wherefore I find no cure to heal my state,Numerous my hardships as the stars of night,Or as the tribes the earth that populate.I understand what for my soul is right,I know the better, and the worse attain,Borne by the love wherein I take delight.But now, fair Nisida, the point I gain,Which I with mortal anguish do desire,Where I shall end the sorrow I sustain.Uplifted is the hostile arm in ire,The keen and ruthless sword awaiteth me,Each with thine anger 'gainst me doth conspire.Thy wrathful will soon, soon, avenged will beUpon the vain presumption of my will,Which was without a reason spurned by thee.No other pangs nor agonies would fillWith agitation dread my mournful thought,Though greater than death's agonizing chill,If I could in my short and bitter lotBut see thee towards my heart-felt wishes kind,As the reverse I see, that thou art not.Narrow the path that leads to bliss, I find,But broad and spacious that which leads to pain;By my misfortune this hath been designed,And death, that buttressed is on thy disdain,By this in anger and in haste doth run,Eager its triumph o'er my life to gain.By yonder path my bliss, well-nigh undone,Departs, crushed by the sternness thou dost show,Which needs must end my brief life all too soon.My fate hath raised me to the height of woeWhere I begin e'en now to dread the scornAnd anger of my sore-offended foe.'Tis that I see the fire wherein I burnIs ice within thy breast, and this is whyAt the last moment I a coward turn.For if thou dost not show thee my ally,Of whom will my weak hand be not afraid,Though strength and skill the more accompany?What Roman warrior, if thou dost but aid,Or what Greek captain would oppose my might?Nay, from his purpose he would shrink dismayed.I would escape e'en from the direst plight,And from death's cruel hand away I'd bearThe spoils of victory in his despite.Thou, thou, alone my lot aloft canst rearAbove all human glory, or abaseUnto the depths below—no bliss is there.For if, as pure Love had the power to raise,Fortune were minded to uphold my lotSafe 'midst the dangers of its lofty place,My hope which lieth where it hopeth naught,Itself would see exalted to a heightAbove the heaven where reigns the moon, in thought.Such am I that I now account delightThe evil that thine angry scorn doth giveUnto my soul in such a wondrous plight,If in thy memory I might see I live,And that perchance thou dost remember, sweet,To deal the wound which I as bliss receive.'Twere easier far for me the tale completeTo tell of the white sands beside the sea,Or of the stars that make the eighth heaven their seat,Than all the pain, the grief, the anxiety,Whereto the rigour of thy cruel disdainCondemns me, though I have not wounded thee.Seek not the measure of thy worth to gainFrom my humility; if we compareLoftiness with thee, 'twill on earth remain.Such as I am I love thee, and I dareTo say that I advance in loving sureUnto the highest point in Love's career,Wherefore in merit I am not so poorThat as an enemy thou shouldst me treat—Rather, methinks, my guerdon should endure.So great a cruelty doth ill befitSuch loveliness, and where we do perceiveSuch worth, there doth ingratitude ill sit.On thee fain would I call account to giveOf a soul yielded thee; where was it thrown?How, when my soul is gone, do I yet live?Didst thou not deign to make my heart thy throne?What can he give thee more who loves thee more?Herein how well was thy presumption shown!I have been soulless from the earliest hourI saw thee for my bliss and for my pain,For all were pain if I saw thee no more.There I of my free heart gave thee the rein,Thou rulest me, for thee alone I live,And yet thy power can more than this attain.Within the flame of pure Love I reviveAnd am undone, since from the death of LoveI, like a phœnix, straightway life receive.This would I have thee think all things above,In faith of this my faith, that it is sureThat I live glowing in the fire of Love,And that thou canst e'en after death restoreMe unto life, and in a moment guideFrom the wild ocean to the peaceful shore.For Love in thee and power dwell side by side,And are united, reigning over me.They waver not nor falter in their pride—And here I end lest I should weary thee.
All hail to Nisida, from a loving swainWho is not hale nor ever hopes to be,Until his health from thine own hand he gain.These lines, I fear, will surely gain for me,Though they be written in my very blood,The abhorred reproach of importunity.And yet I may not, e'en although I would,Escape Love's torment, for my passions bearMy soul along amidst their cruel flood.A fiery daring and a chilly fearEncompass me about, and I remain,Whilst thou dost read this letter, sad and drear;For when I write to thee, I do but gainRuin if thou dost scorn my words, ah woe!And spurn my awkward phrases with disdain.True Heaven is my witness and doth knowIf I have not adored thee from the hourI saw the lovely face that is my foe.I saw thee and adored—What wouldst thou more?The peerless semblance of an angel fairWhat man is there but straightway would adore?Upon thy beauty, in the world so rare,My soul so keenly gazed that on thy faceIt could not rest its piercing gaze, for thereWithin thy soul it was upon the traceOf mighty loveliness, a paradiseGiving assurance of a greater grace.On these rich pinions thou to Heaven dost riseAnd on the earth thou sendest dread and painUnto the simple, wonder to the wise.Happy the soul that doth such bliss contain,And no less happy he who to Love's warYields up his own that blissful soul to gain!Debtor am I unto my fatal star,That bade me yield to one who doth possessWithin so fair a frame a soul so fair.To me thy mood, oh lady, doth confessThat I was wrong when I aspired so high,And covereth with fear my hopefulness.But on my honest purpose I rely,I turn a bold face to despondency,New breath I gain when I to death am nigh.They say that without hope Love cannot be.'Tis mere opinion: for I hope no moreAnd yet the more Love's force doth master me.I love thee for thy goodness, and adore,Thy beauty draws me captive in its train,It was the net Love stretched in love's first hourThat with rare subtlety it might constrainThis soul of mine, careless and fancy-free,Unto the amorous knot, to know its strain.Love his dominion and his tyrannyWithin some breasts sustains by beauty's aid,But not within the curious fantasy,Which looks not on Love's narrow noose displayedIn ringlets of fine gold that satisfyThe heart of him who views them undismayed,Nor on the breast that he who turns his eyeOn breast alone, doth alabaster callNor on the wondrous neck of ivory;But it regards the hidden all in allAnd contemplates the thousand charms displayedWithin the soul that succour and enthral.The charms that are but mortal, doomed to fade,Unto the soul immortal bring not balm,Unless it leave the light and seek the shade.Thy peerless virtue carrieth off the palm,It maketh of my thoughts its spoil and prey,And all my lustful passions it doth calm.They are content and willingly obey,For by the worth thy merits ever showThey seek their hard and bitter pain to weigh.I plough the sea and in the sand I sowWhen I am doomed by passion's mystic stressBeyond the viewing of thy face to go.I know how high thou art; my lowlinessI see, and where the distance is so great,One may not hope, nor do I hope possess.Wherefore I find no cure to heal my state,Numerous my hardships as the stars of night,Or as the tribes the earth that populate.I understand what for my soul is right,I know the better, and the worse attain,Borne by the love wherein I take delight.But now, fair Nisida, the point I gain,Which I with mortal anguish do desire,Where I shall end the sorrow I sustain.Uplifted is the hostile arm in ire,The keen and ruthless sword awaiteth me,Each with thine anger 'gainst me doth conspire.Thy wrathful will soon, soon, avenged will beUpon the vain presumption of my will,Which was without a reason spurned by thee.No other pangs nor agonies would fillWith agitation dread my mournful thought,Though greater than death's agonizing chill,If I could in my short and bitter lotBut see thee towards my heart-felt wishes kind,As the reverse I see, that thou art not.Narrow the path that leads to bliss, I find,But broad and spacious that which leads to pain;By my misfortune this hath been designed,And death, that buttressed is on thy disdain,By this in anger and in haste doth run,Eager its triumph o'er my life to gain.By yonder path my bliss, well-nigh undone,Departs, crushed by the sternness thou dost show,Which needs must end my brief life all too soon.My fate hath raised me to the height of woeWhere I begin e'en now to dread the scornAnd anger of my sore-offended foe.'Tis that I see the fire wherein I burnIs ice within thy breast, and this is whyAt the last moment I a coward turn.For if thou dost not show thee my ally,Of whom will my weak hand be not afraid,Though strength and skill the more accompany?What Roman warrior, if thou dost but aid,Or what Greek captain would oppose my might?Nay, from his purpose he would shrink dismayed.I would escape e'en from the direst plight,And from death's cruel hand away I'd bearThe spoils of victory in his despite.Thou, thou, alone my lot aloft canst rearAbove all human glory, or abaseUnto the depths below—no bliss is there.For if, as pure Love had the power to raise,Fortune were minded to uphold my lotSafe 'midst the dangers of its lofty place,My hope which lieth where it hopeth naught,Itself would see exalted to a heightAbove the heaven where reigns the moon, in thought.Such am I that I now account delightThe evil that thine angry scorn doth giveUnto my soul in such a wondrous plight,If in thy memory I might see I live,And that perchance thou dost remember, sweet,To deal the wound which I as bliss receive.'Twere easier far for me the tale completeTo tell of the white sands beside the sea,Or of the stars that make the eighth heaven their seat,Than all the pain, the grief, the anxiety,Whereto the rigour of thy cruel disdainCondemns me, though I have not wounded thee.Seek not the measure of thy worth to gainFrom my humility; if we compareLoftiness with thee, 'twill on earth remain.Such as I am I love thee, and I dareTo say that I advance in loving sureUnto the highest point in Love's career,Wherefore in merit I am not so poorThat as an enemy thou shouldst me treat—Rather, methinks, my guerdon should endure.So great a cruelty doth ill befitSuch loveliness, and where we do perceiveSuch worth, there doth ingratitude ill sit.On thee fain would I call account to giveOf a soul yielded thee; where was it thrown?How, when my soul is gone, do I yet live?Didst thou not deign to make my heart thy throne?What can he give thee more who loves thee more?Herein how well was thy presumption shown!I have been soulless from the earliest hourI saw thee for my bliss and for my pain,For all were pain if I saw thee no more.There I of my free heart gave thee the rein,Thou rulest me, for thee alone I live,And yet thy power can more than this attain.Within the flame of pure Love I reviveAnd am undone, since from the death of LoveI, like a phœnix, straightway life receive.This would I have thee think all things above,In faith of this my faith, that it is sureThat I live glowing in the fire of Love,And that thou canst e'en after death restoreMe unto life, and in a moment guideFrom the wild ocean to the peaceful shore.For Love in thee and power dwell side by side,And are united, reigning over me.They waver not nor falter in their pride—And here I end lest I should weary thee.
'I know not whether it was the reasonings of this letter, or the many I had urged before on Nisida, assuring her of the true love Timbrio had for her, or Timbrio's ceaseless services, or Heaven that had so ordained it, that moved Nisida's heart to call me at the moment she finished reading it, and with tears in her eyes to say to me: "Ah, Silerio, Silerio! I verily believe that you have at the cost of my peace sought to gain your friend's! May the fates that have brought me to this pass make Timbrio's deeds accord with your words; and if both have deceived me, may Heaven take vengeance for my wrong, Heaven which I call to witness for the violence desire does me, making me keep it no longer concealed. But, alas, how light an acquittal is this for so weighty a fault! since I ought rather to die in silence so that my honour might live, than by saying what I now wish to say to you to bury it and end my life." These words of Nisida's made me confused, and yet more the agitation with which she uttered them; and desiring by mine to encourage her to declare herself without any fear, I had not to importune her much, for at last she told me that she not only loved, but adored Timbrio, and that she would always have concealed that feeling had not the compulsion of Timbrio's departure compelled her to disclose it. It is not possible to describe fitly the state I was in, shepherds, on hearing what Nisida said, and the feeling of love she showed she bore to Timbrio; and indeed it is well that a grief which extends so far should be beyond description. Not that I was grieved to see Timbrio loved, but to see myself rendered incapable of ever having happiness, since it was, and is clear, that I neither could nor can live without Nisida; for to see her, as I have said at other times, placed in another's arms, was to sever myself from all pleasure, and if fate granted me any at this pass, it was to consider the welfare of my friend Timbrio, and this was the cause why my death and the declaration of Nisida's love did not occur at one and the same moment. I listened to her as well as I could, and assured her as well as I knew how of the integrity of Timbrio's breast, whereat she replied to me that there was no need to assure her of that, for that she was of such a mind that she could not,nor ought she to, fail to believe me, only asking me, if it were possible, to manage to persuade Timbrio to seek some honourable means to avoid a combat with his foe: and when I replied that this was impossible without his being dishonoured, she was calmed, and taking from her neck some precious relics, she gave them to me that I might give them to Timbrio from her. As she knew her parents were to go and see Timbrio's fight, and would take her and her sister with them, but as she would not have the courage to be present at Timbrio's dire peril, it was also agreed between us that she should pretend to be indisposed, on which pretext she would remain in a pleasure-house where her parents were to lodge, which was half a league from the town where the combat was to take place, and that there she would await her bad or good fortune, according to Timbrio's. She bade me also, in order to shorten the anxiety she would feel to learn Timbrio's fortune, take with me a white kerchief which she gave me, and, if Timbrio conquered, bind it on my arm, and come back to give her the news; and, if he were vanquished, not to bind it, and so she would learn from afar by the token of the kerchief the beginning of her bliss or the end of her life. I promised her to do all she bade me, and taking the relics and the kerchief I took leave of her with the greatest sadness and the greatest joy I ever felt; my little fortune caused the sadness; Timbrio's great fortune the gladness. He learnt from me what I brought him from Nisida, whereat he was so joyous, happy, and proud, that the danger of the battle he awaited he counted as naught, for it seemed to him that in being favoured by his lady, not even death itself would be able to gainsay him. For the present I pass by in silence the exaggerated terms Timbrio used to show himself grateful for what he owed to my solicitude; for they were such that he seemed to be out of his senses while discoursing thereon. Being cheered, then, and encouraged by this good news, he began to make preparations for his departure, taking as seconds a Spanish gentleman, and another, a Neapolitan. And at the tidings of this particular duel countless people of the kingdom were moved to see it, Nisida's parents also going there, taking her and her sister Blanca with them. As it fell to Timbrio to choose weapons, he wished to show that he based his right, not on the advantage they possessed, but on the justice that was his, and so those he chose were the sword and dagger, without any defensive weapon. But few days were wanting to the appointed term, when Nisida and her father, with many other gentlemen, set out from the city of Naples; she, having arrived first, reminded me many times not to forget our agreement; but my wearied memory, which never served save to remind me of things alone that were unpleasing to me, so as not to change its character, forgot as much of what Nisida hadtold me as it saw was needful to rob me of life, or at least to set me in the miserable state in which I now see myself.'
The shepherds were listening with great attention to what Silerio was relating, when the thread of his story was interrupted by the voice of a hapless shepherd, who was singing among some trees, nor yet so far from the windows of the dwelling where they were, but that all that he said could not fail to be heard. The voice was such that it imposed silence on Silerio, who in no wise wished to proceed, but rather asked the other shepherds to listen to it, since for the little there remained of his story, there would be time to finish it. This would have annoyed Thyrsis and Damon, had not Elicio said to them:
'Little will be lost, shepherds, in listening to the luckless Mireno, who is without doubt the shepherd that is singing, and whom fortune has brought to such a pass that I fancy he hopes for nothing in the way of his happiness.'
'How can he hope for it,' said Erastro, 'if to-morrow Daranio marries the shepherdess Silveria, whom he thought to wed? But in the end Daranio's wealth has had more power with Silveria's parents than the abilities of Mireno.'
'You speak truth,' replied Elicio: 'but with Silveria the love she knew Mireno had for her should have had more power than any treasure; the more so that Mireno is not so poor that his poverty would be remarked, though Silveria were to wed him.'
Through these remarks which Elicio and Erastro uttered, the desire to learn what Mireno was singing increased in the shepherds; and so Silerio begged that no more might be said, and all with attentive ears stopped to listen to him. He, distressed by Silveria's ingratitude, seeing that next day she was wedding Daranio, with the rage and grief this deed caused him, had gone forth from his house accompanied only by his rebeck: and invited by the solitude and silence of a tiny little meadow which was hard by the walls of the village, and trusting that on a night so peaceful no one would listen to him, he sat down at the foot of a tree, and tuning his rebeck was singing in this wise:
MIRENO.
Oh cloudless sky, that with so many eyesO'er all the world the thefts of Love beholdest,And in thy course dost fill with joy or griefHim who to their sweet cause his agoniesTells 'midst thy stillness, or whom thou withholdestFrom such delight, nor offerest him relief,If yet with thee be chiefKindness for me perchance, since now indeedIn speech alone contentment must I find,Thou, knowing all my mind,My words—it is not much I ask—may'st heed;For, see, my voice of woeShall with my sorrowing soul die 'neath the blow.Ah now my wearied voice, my woeful cry,Scarce, scarce, will now offend the empty air;For I at last unto this pass am brought,That to the winds that angry hasten by,Love casts my hopes, and in another's careHath placed the bliss that I deserving sought,The fruit my loving thoughtDid sow, the fruit watered by wearied tearsBy his triumphant hands will gathered be,And his the victory,Who was in fortune rich beyond his peers,But in deserving poor—'Tis fortune smooths the rough and makes it sure.Then he who sees his happiness departBy any way, who doth his glory seeTransformed into such bitter grievous pain—Why ends he not his life with all its smart?Against the countless powers of destinyWhy strives he not to break the vital chain?Slowly I pass amainUnto the peril sweet of bitter death.Wherefore, mine arm, bold 'midst thy weariness,Endure thou the distressOf living, since our lot it brightenethTo know that 'tis Love's willThat grief should do the deed, as steel doth kill.My death is certain, for it cannot beThat he should live whose very hope is dead,And who from glory doth so far remain.Yet this I fear, that death, by Love's decree,May be impossible, that memory fedBy a false confidence may live againIn my despite. What then?For if the tale of my past happinessI call to mind, and see that all is gone,That I am now undoneBy the sad cares I in its stead possess,'Twill serve the more to showThat I from memory and from life should go.Ah! chief and only good my soul hath known!Sun that didst calm the storm within my breast!Goal of the worth that is desired by me!Can it be that the day should ever dawnWhen I must know that thou rememberestNo more, and Love that day doth let me see?Rather, ere this should be,Ere thy fair neck be by another's armsIn all its loveliness encircled, ereThy golden—nay thy hairIs gold, and ere its gold in all its charmsShould make Daranio rich,Its end may the evil with my life's end reach.None hath by faith better deserved than ITo win thee; but I see that faith is dead,Unless it be by deeds made manifest.To certain grief and to uncertain joyI yield my life; and if I meritedThereby, I might hope for a gladsome feast.But in this cruellestLaw used by Love, hath good desire no place,This proverb lovers did of old discover:The deed declares the lover,And as for me, who to my hurt possessNaught but the will to do,Wherein must I not fail, whose deeds are few?I thought the law would clearly broken beIn thee, that avaricious Love doth use;I thought that thou thine eyes on high wouldst raiseUnto a captive soul that serves but thee,So ready to perform what thou dost choose,That, if thou didst but know, 'twould earn thy praise.For a faith that assaysBy the vain pomps of wealth so full of careAll its desires, thou wouldst not change, I thought,A faith that was so fraughtWith tokens of good faith, Silveria fair.Thyself thou didst to goldYield that thou mightst yield me to grief untold.Oh poverty, that creepest on the ground,Cause of the grief that doth my soul enrage,He praiseth thee, thy face who never saw.Thy visage did my shepherdess confound,At once thy harshness did her love assuage,She to escape thee doth her foot withdraw.This is thy cruel law,Vainly doth one aspire the goal to findOf amorous purpose; thou high hopes abasestAnd countless changes placestWithin the greedy breast of womankind,But never dost thou blessThe worth of lovers with complete success.Gold is a sun, whose ray the keenest eyesBlindeth, if on the semblance they be fedOf interest, that doth beguile the sight.He that is liberal-handed wins the prize,Even her hand, who, by her avarice led,Fair though she be, declares her heart's delight.'Tis gold that turns the sightFrom the pure purpose and the faith sincere;More than a lover's firmness is undoneBy the diamond stone,Whose hardness turns to wax a bosom fair,However hard it be;Its fancy thus it winneth easily.Oh sweet my foe I suffer grief untoldFor thee, because thy matchless charms thou hastMade ugly by a proof of avarice.So much didst thou reveal thy love of goldThat thou my passion didst behind thee castAnd to oblivion didst my care dismiss.Now thou art wed! Ah, thisEnds all! Wed, shepherdess! I pray that HeavenThy choice, as thou thyself wouldst wish, may bless,That for my bitternessA just reward may not to thee be given.—But, alas! Heaven, our friend,Guerdon to virtue, stripes to ill doth send.
Oh cloudless sky, that with so many eyesO'er all the world the thefts of Love beholdest,And in thy course dost fill with joy or griefHim who to their sweet cause his agoniesTells 'midst thy stillness, or whom thou withholdestFrom such delight, nor offerest him relief,If yet with thee be chiefKindness for me perchance, since now indeedIn speech alone contentment must I find,Thou, knowing all my mind,My words—it is not much I ask—may'st heed;For, see, my voice of woeShall with my sorrowing soul die 'neath the blow.Ah now my wearied voice, my woeful cry,Scarce, scarce, will now offend the empty air;For I at last unto this pass am brought,That to the winds that angry hasten by,Love casts my hopes, and in another's careHath placed the bliss that I deserving sought,The fruit my loving thoughtDid sow, the fruit watered by wearied tearsBy his triumphant hands will gathered be,And his the victory,Who was in fortune rich beyond his peers,But in deserving poor—'Tis fortune smooths the rough and makes it sure.Then he who sees his happiness departBy any way, who doth his glory seeTransformed into such bitter grievous pain—Why ends he not his life with all its smart?Against the countless powers of destinyWhy strives he not to break the vital chain?Slowly I pass amainUnto the peril sweet of bitter death.Wherefore, mine arm, bold 'midst thy weariness,Endure thou the distressOf living, since our lot it brightenethTo know that 'tis Love's willThat grief should do the deed, as steel doth kill.My death is certain, for it cannot beThat he should live whose very hope is dead,And who from glory doth so far remain.Yet this I fear, that death, by Love's decree,May be impossible, that memory fedBy a false confidence may live againIn my despite. What then?For if the tale of my past happinessI call to mind, and see that all is gone,That I am now undoneBy the sad cares I in its stead possess,'Twill serve the more to showThat I from memory and from life should go.Ah! chief and only good my soul hath known!Sun that didst calm the storm within my breast!Goal of the worth that is desired by me!Can it be that the day should ever dawnWhen I must know that thou rememberestNo more, and Love that day doth let me see?Rather, ere this should be,Ere thy fair neck be by another's armsIn all its loveliness encircled, ereThy golden—nay thy hairIs gold, and ere its gold in all its charmsShould make Daranio rich,Its end may the evil with my life's end reach.None hath by faith better deserved than ITo win thee; but I see that faith is dead,Unless it be by deeds made manifest.To certain grief and to uncertain joyI yield my life; and if I meritedThereby, I might hope for a gladsome feast.But in this cruellestLaw used by Love, hath good desire no place,This proverb lovers did of old discover:The deed declares the lover,And as for me, who to my hurt possessNaught but the will to do,Wherein must I not fail, whose deeds are few?I thought the law would clearly broken beIn thee, that avaricious Love doth use;I thought that thou thine eyes on high wouldst raiseUnto a captive soul that serves but thee,So ready to perform what thou dost choose,That, if thou didst but know, 'twould earn thy praise.For a faith that assaysBy the vain pomps of wealth so full of careAll its desires, thou wouldst not change, I thought,A faith that was so fraughtWith tokens of good faith, Silveria fair.Thyself thou didst to goldYield that thou mightst yield me to grief untold.Oh poverty, that creepest on the ground,Cause of the grief that doth my soul enrage,He praiseth thee, thy face who never saw.Thy visage did my shepherdess confound,At once thy harshness did her love assuage,She to escape thee doth her foot withdraw.This is thy cruel law,Vainly doth one aspire the goal to findOf amorous purpose; thou high hopes abasestAnd countless changes placestWithin the greedy breast of womankind,But never dost thou blessThe worth of lovers with complete success.Gold is a sun, whose ray the keenest eyesBlindeth, if on the semblance they be fedOf interest, that doth beguile the sight.He that is liberal-handed wins the prize,Even her hand, who, by her avarice led,Fair though she be, declares her heart's delight.'Tis gold that turns the sightFrom the pure purpose and the faith sincere;More than a lover's firmness is undoneBy the diamond stone,Whose hardness turns to wax a bosom fair,However hard it be;Its fancy thus it winneth easily.Oh sweet my foe I suffer grief untoldFor thee, because thy matchless charms thou hastMade ugly by a proof of avarice.So much didst thou reveal thy love of goldThat thou my passion didst behind thee castAnd to oblivion didst my care dismiss.Now thou art wed! Ah, thisEnds all! Wed, shepherdess! I pray that HeavenThy choice, as thou thyself wouldst wish, may bless,That for my bitternessA just reward may not to thee be given.—But, alas! Heaven, our friend,Guerdon to virtue, stripes to ill doth send.
Oh cloudless sky, that with so many eyesO'er all the world the thefts of Love beholdest,And in thy course dost fill with joy or griefHim who to their sweet cause his agoniesTells 'midst thy stillness, or whom thou withholdestFrom such delight, nor offerest him relief,If yet with thee be chiefKindness for me perchance, since now indeedIn speech alone contentment must I find,Thou, knowing all my mind,My words—it is not much I ask—may'st heed;For, see, my voice of woeShall with my sorrowing soul die 'neath the blow.
Ah now my wearied voice, my woeful cry,Scarce, scarce, will now offend the empty air;For I at last unto this pass am brought,That to the winds that angry hasten by,Love casts my hopes, and in another's careHath placed the bliss that I deserving sought,The fruit my loving thoughtDid sow, the fruit watered by wearied tearsBy his triumphant hands will gathered be,And his the victory,Who was in fortune rich beyond his peers,But in deserving poor—'Tis fortune smooths the rough and makes it sure.
Then he who sees his happiness departBy any way, who doth his glory seeTransformed into such bitter grievous pain—Why ends he not his life with all its smart?Against the countless powers of destinyWhy strives he not to break the vital chain?Slowly I pass amainUnto the peril sweet of bitter death.Wherefore, mine arm, bold 'midst thy weariness,Endure thou the distressOf living, since our lot it brightenethTo know that 'tis Love's willThat grief should do the deed, as steel doth kill.
My death is certain, for it cannot beThat he should live whose very hope is dead,And who from glory doth so far remain.Yet this I fear, that death, by Love's decree,May be impossible, that memory fedBy a false confidence may live againIn my despite. What then?For if the tale of my past happinessI call to mind, and see that all is gone,That I am now undoneBy the sad cares I in its stead possess,'Twill serve the more to showThat I from memory and from life should go.
Ah! chief and only good my soul hath known!Sun that didst calm the storm within my breast!Goal of the worth that is desired by me!Can it be that the day should ever dawnWhen I must know that thou rememberestNo more, and Love that day doth let me see?Rather, ere this should be,Ere thy fair neck be by another's armsIn all its loveliness encircled, ereThy golden—nay thy hairIs gold, and ere its gold in all its charmsShould make Daranio rich,Its end may the evil with my life's end reach.
None hath by faith better deserved than ITo win thee; but I see that faith is dead,Unless it be by deeds made manifest.To certain grief and to uncertain joyI yield my life; and if I meritedThereby, I might hope for a gladsome feast.But in this cruellestLaw used by Love, hath good desire no place,This proverb lovers did of old discover:The deed declares the lover,And as for me, who to my hurt possessNaught but the will to do,Wherein must I not fail, whose deeds are few?
I thought the law would clearly broken beIn thee, that avaricious Love doth use;I thought that thou thine eyes on high wouldst raiseUnto a captive soul that serves but thee,So ready to perform what thou dost choose,That, if thou didst but know, 'twould earn thy praise.For a faith that assaysBy the vain pomps of wealth so full of careAll its desires, thou wouldst not change, I thought,A faith that was so fraughtWith tokens of good faith, Silveria fair.Thyself thou didst to goldYield that thou mightst yield me to grief untold.
Oh poverty, that creepest on the ground,Cause of the grief that doth my soul enrage,He praiseth thee, thy face who never saw.Thy visage did my shepherdess confound,At once thy harshness did her love assuage,She to escape thee doth her foot withdraw.This is thy cruel law,Vainly doth one aspire the goal to findOf amorous purpose; thou high hopes abasestAnd countless changes placestWithin the greedy breast of womankind,But never dost thou blessThe worth of lovers with complete success.
Gold is a sun, whose ray the keenest eyesBlindeth, if on the semblance they be fedOf interest, that doth beguile the sight.He that is liberal-handed wins the prize,Even her hand, who, by her avarice led,Fair though she be, declares her heart's delight.'Tis gold that turns the sightFrom the pure purpose and the faith sincere;More than a lover's firmness is undoneBy the diamond stone,Whose hardness turns to wax a bosom fair,However hard it be;Its fancy thus it winneth easily.
Oh sweet my foe I suffer grief untoldFor thee, because thy matchless charms thou hastMade ugly by a proof of avarice.So much didst thou reveal thy love of goldThat thou my passion didst behind thee castAnd to oblivion didst my care dismiss.Now thou art wed! Ah, thisEnds all! Wed, shepherdess! I pray that HeavenThy choice, as thou thyself wouldst wish, may bless,That for my bitternessA just reward may not to thee be given.—But, alas! Heaven, our friend,Guerdon to virtue, stripes to ill doth send.
Here the hapless Mireno ended his song with tokens of grief so great that he inspired the same in all those who were listening to him, especially in those who knew him, and were acquainted with his virtues, gallant disposition and honourable bearing. And after there had passed between the shepherds some remarks upon the strange character of women, and chiefly upon the marriage of Silveria, who, forgetful of Mireno's love and goodness, had yielded herself to Daranio's wealth, they were desirous that Silerio should end his story, and, complete silence having been imposed, without needing to be asked, he began to continue, saying:
'The day of the dire peril, then, having come, Nisida remained half a league out of the village, in some gardens as she had agreed with me, with the pretext she gave to her parents that she was not well; and as I left her, she charged me to return quickly, with the token of the kerchief, for, according as I wore it or not, she would learn the good or ill fortune of Timbrio. I promised it to her once more, being aggrieved that she shouldcharge me with it so often. Therewith I took leave of her and of her sister, who remained with her. And when I had come to the place of combat and the hour of beginning it had come, after the seconds of both had completed the ceremonies and warnings which are required in such a case, the two gentlemen, being set in the lists, at the dread sound of a hoarse trumpet engaged with such dexterity and skill that it caused admiration in all that saw them. But love or justice—and this is the more likely—which was favouring Timbrio, gave him such vigour that, though at the cost of some wounds, in a short space he put his adversary in such a plight, that, having him at his feet, wounded and covered with blood, he begged him to give in, if he wished to save his life. But the luckless Pransiles urged him to make an end of killing him, since it was easier for him and less hurtful to pass through a thousand deaths than to surrender; yet Timbrio's noble soul is such that he neither wished to kill his foe, nor yet that he should confess himself vanquished. He merely contented himself with his saying and acknowledging that Timbrio was as good as he; which Pransiles confessed gladly, since in this he did so little, that he might very well have said it without seeing himself in that pass. All the bystanders who heard how Timbrio had dealt with his foe, praised it and valued it highly. Scarcely had I seen my friend's happy fortune, when with incredible joy and swift speed I returned to give the news to Nisida. But woe is me! for my carelessness then has set me in my present care. Oh memory, memory mine! why had you none for what concerned me so much? But I believe it was ordained in my fortune, that the beginning of that gladness should be the end and conclusion of all my joys. I returned to see Nisida with the speed I have said, but returned without placing the white kerchief on my arm. Nisida, who, from some lofty galleries, with violent longing, was waiting and watching for my return, seeing me returning without the kerchief, thought that some sinister mishap had befallen Timbrio, and she believed it and felt it in such wise, that, without aught else contributing, all her spirits failed her, and she fell to the ground in so strange a swoon, that all counted her dead. By the time I came up, I found all her household in a turmoil, and her sister showing a thousand extremes of grief over the body of sad Nisida. When I saw her in such a state, firmly believing that she was dead, and seeing that the force of grief was drawing me out of my senses, and afraid that while bereft of them I might give or disclose some tokens of my thoughts, I went forth from the house, and slowly returned to give the luckless news to luckless Timbrio. But as the anxiety of my grief had robbed me of my strength of mind and body, my steps were not so swift but that others had been more so to carry the sad tidings to Nisida's parents, assuring them that she had been carried off by an acute paroxysm. Timbriomust needs have heard this and been in the same state as I was, if not in a worse; I can only say that when I came to where I thought to find him, the night was already somewhat advanced, and I learned from one of his seconds that he had departed for Naples with his other second by the post, with tokens of such great unhappiness as if he had issued from the combat vanquished and dishonoured. I at once fancied what it might be, and at once set myself on the way to follow him, and before I reached Naples, I had sure tidings that Nisida was not dead, but had been in a swoon which lasted four and twenty hours, at the end of which she had come to herself with many tears and sighs. With the certainty of these tidings I was consoled, and with greater joy reached Naples, thinking to find Timbrio there; but it was not so, for the gentleman with whom he had come assured me that on reaching Naples, he departed without saying anything, and that he did not know whither; only he fancied that, as he saw him sad and melancholy after the fight, he could not but think he had gone to kill himself. This was news which sent me back to my first tears, and my fortune, not even content with this, ordained that at the end of a few days Nisida's parents should come to Naples without her and without her sister, who, as I learned, and as was the common report, had both absented themselves one night, whilst coming with their parents to Naples, without any news being known of them. Thereat I was so confused that I knew not what to do with myself nor what to say to myself, and being placed in this strange confusion, I came to learn, though not very surely, that Timbrio had embarked in the port of Gaeta on a large ship bound for Spain. Thinking it might be true, I came straightway to Spain, and have looked for him in Xeres and in every place I fancied he might be, without finding any trace of him. At last I came to the city of Toledo, where all the kinsmen of Nisida's parents are, and what I succeeded in learning is that they have returned to Toledo without having learned news of their daughters. Seeing myself, then, absent from Timbrio and away from Nisida, and considering that as soon as I should find them, it must needs be to their joy and my ruin, being now wearied and disenchanted of the things of this deceitful world in which we live, I have resolved to turn my thoughts to a better pole-star, and to spend the little that remains to me of life, in the service of Him who values desires and works in the degree they deserve. And so I have chosen this garb you see, and the hermitage you have seen, where in sweet solitude I may repress my desires and direct my works to a better goal; though, as the course of the evil inclinations I have cherished till now, springs from so far back, they are not so easy to check but that they somewhat overrun the bounds, and memory returns to battle with me, representing to me the past. When I see myself in this pass, to the sound ofyonder harp which I chose for companion in my solitude, I seek to lighten the heavy burden of my cares until Heaven shall take it and be minded to call me to a better life. This, shepherds, is the story of my misfortune; and if I have been long in telling it to you, it is because my misfortune has not been brief in afflicting me. What I pray you is to allow me to return to my hermitage, for, though your company is pleasing to me, I have come to the pass that nothing gives me more joy than solitude, and henceforward you will understand the life I lead and the woe I endure.'
Herewith Silerio ended his story, but not the tears with which he had ofttimes accompanied it. The shepherds consoled him for them as best they could, especially Damon and Thyrsis, who with many reasonings urged him not to lose the hope of seeing his friend Timbrio in greater happiness than he could imagine, since it was not possible but that after such evil fortune Heaven should become serene, wherefrom it might be hoped that it would not be willing for the false news of Nisida's death to come to Timbrio's knowledge save in a truer version before despair should end his days; and that, as regards Nisida it might be believed and conjectured that, on finding Timbrio absent, she had gone in search of him; and that, if fortune had then parted them by such strange accidents, it would know now how to unite them by others no less strange. All these reasonings and many others they addressed to him, consoled him somewhat, but not so as to awaken the hope of seeing himself in a life of greater happiness, nor yet did he seek it, for it seemed to him that the life he had chosen, was the one most fitting for him. A great part of the night was already passed when the shepherds agreed to rest for the little time that remained until the day, whereon the wedding of Daranio and Silveria was to be celebrated. But scarce had the white dawn left the irksome couch of her jealous spouse, when most of the shepherds of the village all left theirs, and each as best he could, for his part, began to gladden the feast. One brought green boughs to adorn the doorway of the betrothed, another with tabor and flute gave them the morning greeting. Here was heard the gladdening pipe, here sounded the tuneful rebeck, there the ancient psaltery, here the practised flageolet; one with red ribands adorned his castanets for the hoped-for dance, another polished and polished again his rustic finery to show himself gallant in the eyes of some little shepherdess his sweetheart, so that in whatever part of the village one went, all savoured of happiness, pleasure, and festivity. There was only the sad and hapless Mireno, to whom all these joys were the cause of greatest sadness. He, having gone out from the village, so as not to see performed the sacrifice of his glory, ascended a hillock which was near the village, and seating himself there at the foot of an old ash tree, placing his hand on his cheek, hisbonnet pulled down to his eyes which he kept rivetted on the ground, he began to ponder the hapless plight in which he found himself, and how, without being able to prevent it, he had to see the fruit of his desires culled before his eyes; and this thought held him in such a way that he wept so tenderly and bitterly that no one could see him in such a pass without accompanying him with tears. At this moment Damon and Thyrsis, Elicio and Erastro arose, and appearing at a window which looked on to the plain, the first object on which they set eyes was the luckless Mireno, and on seeing him in the state in which he was, they knew full well the grief he was suffering; and, being moved to compassion, they determined all to go and console him, as they would have done, had not Elicio begged them to let him go alone, for he thought that, as Mireno was so great a friend of his, he would impart his grief to him more freely than to another. The shepherds consented to it, and Elicio, going there, found Mireno so beside himself and so transported in his grief that he neither recognised him nor spoke to him a word. Elicio, seeing this, beckoned to the other shepherds to come, and they, fearing that some strange accident had befallen Mireno, since Elicio called them with haste, straightway went there, and saw Mireno with eyes so fixed on the ground, and so motionless that he seemed a statue, seeing that he did not awake from his strange trance with the coming of Elicio nor with that of Thyrsis, Damon and Erastro, except that after a long while he began to say as it were between his teeth:
'Are you Silveria, Silveria? if you are, I am not Mireno, and if I am not Mireno, you are not Silveria, for it is not possible for Silveria to be without Mireno, or Mireno without Silveria. Then who am I, hapless one? or who are you, ungrateful one? Full well I know that I am not Mireno, for you have not wished to be Silveria, at least the Silveria you ought to have been and I thought you were.'
At this moment he raised his eyes, and as he saw the four shepherds round him and recognised Elicio among them, he arose and without ceasing his bitter plaint, threw his arms round his neck, saying to him:
'Ah, my true friend, now indeed you will have no cause to envy my state, as you envied it when you saw me favoured by Silveria; for, if you called me happy then, you can call me hapless now, and change all the glad names you gave me then, into the grievous ones you now can give me. I indeed will be able to call you happy, Elicio, since you are more consoled by the hope you have of being loved than afflicted by the real fear of being forgotten.'
'You make me perplexed, oh Mireno,' answered Elicio, 'to see the extreme grief you display at what Silveria has done, when you know that she has parents whom it was right to have obeyed.'
'If she felt love,' replied Mireno, 'duty to parents were small hindrance to keep her from fulfilling what she owed to love. Whence I come to think, oh Elicio, that if she loved me well, she did ill to marry, and if the love she used to show me was feigned, she did worse in deceiving me and in offering to undeceive me at a time when it cannot avail me save by leaving my life in her hands.'
'Your life, Mireno,' replied Elicio, 'is not in such a pass that for cure you have to end it, since it might be that the change in Silveria was not in her will, but in the constraint of obedience to her parents; and, if you loved her purely and honourably when a maid, you can also love her now that she is wed, she responding now as then to your good and honourable desires.'
'Little do you know Silveria, Elicio,' answered Mireno, 'since you imagine of her that she is likely to do aught that might make her notorious.'
'This very argument you have used, condemns you,' replied Elicio, 'since, if you, Mireno, know of Silveria that she will not do anything which may be hurtful to her, she cannot have erred in what she has done.'
'If she has not erred,' answered Mireno, 'she has succeeded in robbing me of all the fair issue I hoped from my fair thoughts; and only in this do I blame her that she never warned me of this blow, nay rather, when I had fears of it, she assured me with a firm oath that they were fancies of mine, and that it had never entered her fancy to think of marrying Daranio, nor, if she could not marry me, would she marry him nor anyone else, though she were thereby to risk remaining in perpetual disgrace with her parents and kinsmen; and under this assurance and promise now to fail in and break her faith in the way you have seen—what reason is there that would consent to such a thing, or what heart that would suffer it?'
Here Mireno once more renewed his plaint and here again the shepherds had pity for him. At this moment two youths came up to where they were; one of them was Mireno's kinsman, the other a servant of Daranio's who came to summon Elicio, Thyrsis, Damon and Erastro, for the festivities of his marriage were about to begin. It grieved the shepherds to leave Mireno alone, but the shepherd his kinsman offered to remain with him, and indeed Mireno told Elicio that he wished to go away from that region, so as not to see every day before his eyes the cause of his misfortune. Elicio praised his resolve and charged him, wherever he might be, to inform him how it went with him. Mireno so promised him; and drawing from his bosom a paper, he begged him to give it to Silveria on finding an opportunity. Therewith he took leave of all the shepherds, not without token of much grief and sadness. He had not gone far from their presence, when Elicio, desirous of learning what was in thepaper, seeing that, since it was open, it mattered but little if he read it, unfolded it, and inviting the other shepherds to listen to him, saw that in it were written these verses:
MIRENO TOSILVERIA.
He who once gave unto theeMost of all he did possess,Unto thee now, shepherdess,Sends what remnant there may be;Even this poor paper whereClearly written he hath shownThe faith that from thee hath gone,What remains with him, despair.But perchance it doth availLittle that I tell thee this,If my faith bring me no bliss,And my woe to please thee fail;Think not that I seek to mourn,To complain that thou dost leave me;'Tis too late that I should grieve meFor my early love forlorn.Time was when thou fain wouldst hearAll my tale of misery;If a tear were in my eye,Thou therewith wouldst shed a tear:Then Mireno was in truthHe on whom thine eyes were set,Changed thou art and dost forget,All the joyous time of youth!Did that error but endure,Tempered were my bitter sadness;Fancied joy brings greater gladnessThan a loss well known and sure.But 'twas thou that didst ordainMy misfortune and distress,Making by thy ficklenessFalse my bliss and sure my pain.From thy words so full of liesAnd my ears that, weak, believed,Fancied joys have I received,And undoubted miseries.Seeming pleasures once me crownedWith the buoyancy of youth,But the evils in their truthTo my sorrow do redound.Hence I judge and know full well,And it cannot be denied,That its glory and its prideLove hath at the gates of hell;Whoso doth not set his gazeUpon Love, from joy to painBy oblivion and disdainIs brought in a moment's space.With such swiftness thou hast wroughtThis mysterious transformation,That already desperationAnd not gain becomes my lot;For methinks 'twas yesterdayThou didst love me, or didst feignLove at least, for this is plain,What I must believe to-day.Still thy pleasing voice I hearUttering sweet and witty things,Still thy loving reasoningsAre resounding in my ear;But these memories at last,Though they please, yet torture more,Since away the breezes boreWords and works adown the blast.Wert thou she who in her prideSwore her days on earth should end,If she did not love her friendMore than all she loved beside?Wert thou she who to me showedHow she loved with such good-will,That, although I was her ill,She did hold me for her good?Oh if but I could thee hateAs thou hatest me, thy nameWould I brand with fitting shame,Since thou'rt thankless and ingrate;Yet it useless is for meThus to hate thee and disdain,Love to me is greater gainThan forgetfulness to thee.To my singing sad lament,To my springtime winter's snow,To my laughter bitter woeThy relentless hand hath sentIt has changed my joyous dressTo the garb of those that mourn,Love's soft flower to poignant thorn,Love's sweet fruit to bitterness.Thou wilt say—thereat I bleed—That thy marriage to this swain,Thy forgetfulness again,Is a noble honest deed;If it were not known to theeThat in thy betrothal hourMy life ended evermore,Then I might admit thy plea.But thy pleasure in a wordPleasure was; but 'twas not just,Since my faith and loyal trustDid but earn unjust reward;For my faith, since it doth seeHow to show its faithfulness,Wanes not through thy fickleness,Faints not through my misery.None will wonder—surely no man,When he comes to know the truth,Seeing that I am a youth,And, Silveria, thou art woman;Ever in her, we believe,Hath its home inconstancy;Second nature 'tis to meThus to suffer and to grieve.Thee a wedded bride I viewNow repentant, making moan,For it is a fact well knownThat thou wilt in naught be true;Gladly seek the yoke to bearThat thou on thy neck didst cast,For thou may'st it hate at last,But for ever 'twill be there.Yet so fickle is thy state,And thy mood is so severe,That what yesterday was dearThou must needs to-morrow hate;Hence in some mysterious way,'Lovely 'midst her fickleness,Fickle 'midst her loveliness,'He who speaks of thee will say.
He who once gave unto theeMost of all he did possess,Unto thee now, shepherdess,Sends what remnant there may be;Even this poor paper whereClearly written he hath shownThe faith that from thee hath gone,What remains with him, despair.But perchance it doth availLittle that I tell thee this,If my faith bring me no bliss,And my woe to please thee fail;Think not that I seek to mourn,To complain that thou dost leave me;'Tis too late that I should grieve meFor my early love forlorn.Time was when thou fain wouldst hearAll my tale of misery;If a tear were in my eye,Thou therewith wouldst shed a tear:Then Mireno was in truthHe on whom thine eyes were set,Changed thou art and dost forget,All the joyous time of youth!Did that error but endure,Tempered were my bitter sadness;Fancied joy brings greater gladnessThan a loss well known and sure.But 'twas thou that didst ordainMy misfortune and distress,Making by thy ficklenessFalse my bliss and sure my pain.From thy words so full of liesAnd my ears that, weak, believed,Fancied joys have I received,And undoubted miseries.Seeming pleasures once me crownedWith the buoyancy of youth,But the evils in their truthTo my sorrow do redound.Hence I judge and know full well,And it cannot be denied,That its glory and its prideLove hath at the gates of hell;Whoso doth not set his gazeUpon Love, from joy to painBy oblivion and disdainIs brought in a moment's space.With such swiftness thou hast wroughtThis mysterious transformation,That already desperationAnd not gain becomes my lot;For methinks 'twas yesterdayThou didst love me, or didst feignLove at least, for this is plain,What I must believe to-day.Still thy pleasing voice I hearUttering sweet and witty things,Still thy loving reasoningsAre resounding in my ear;But these memories at last,Though they please, yet torture more,Since away the breezes boreWords and works adown the blast.Wert thou she who in her prideSwore her days on earth should end,If she did not love her friendMore than all she loved beside?Wert thou she who to me showedHow she loved with such good-will,That, although I was her ill,She did hold me for her good?Oh if but I could thee hateAs thou hatest me, thy nameWould I brand with fitting shame,Since thou'rt thankless and ingrate;Yet it useless is for meThus to hate thee and disdain,Love to me is greater gainThan forgetfulness to thee.To my singing sad lament,To my springtime winter's snow,To my laughter bitter woeThy relentless hand hath sentIt has changed my joyous dressTo the garb of those that mourn,Love's soft flower to poignant thorn,Love's sweet fruit to bitterness.Thou wilt say—thereat I bleed—That thy marriage to this swain,Thy forgetfulness again,Is a noble honest deed;If it were not known to theeThat in thy betrothal hourMy life ended evermore,Then I might admit thy plea.But thy pleasure in a wordPleasure was; but 'twas not just,Since my faith and loyal trustDid but earn unjust reward;For my faith, since it doth seeHow to show its faithfulness,Wanes not through thy fickleness,Faints not through my misery.None will wonder—surely no man,When he comes to know the truth,Seeing that I am a youth,And, Silveria, thou art woman;Ever in her, we believe,Hath its home inconstancy;Second nature 'tis to meThus to suffer and to grieve.Thee a wedded bride I viewNow repentant, making moan,For it is a fact well knownThat thou wilt in naught be true;Gladly seek the yoke to bearThat thou on thy neck didst cast,For thou may'st it hate at last,But for ever 'twill be there.Yet so fickle is thy state,And thy mood is so severe,That what yesterday was dearThou must needs to-morrow hate;Hence in some mysterious way,'Lovely 'midst her fickleness,Fickle 'midst her loveliness,'He who speaks of thee will say.
He who once gave unto theeMost of all he did possess,Unto thee now, shepherdess,Sends what remnant there may be;Even this poor paper whereClearly written he hath shownThe faith that from thee hath gone,What remains with him, despair.
But perchance it doth availLittle that I tell thee this,If my faith bring me no bliss,And my woe to please thee fail;Think not that I seek to mourn,To complain that thou dost leave me;'Tis too late that I should grieve meFor my early love forlorn.
Time was when thou fain wouldst hearAll my tale of misery;If a tear were in my eye,Thou therewith wouldst shed a tear:Then Mireno was in truthHe on whom thine eyes were set,Changed thou art and dost forget,All the joyous time of youth!
Did that error but endure,Tempered were my bitter sadness;Fancied joy brings greater gladnessThan a loss well known and sure.But 'twas thou that didst ordainMy misfortune and distress,Making by thy ficklenessFalse my bliss and sure my pain.
From thy words so full of liesAnd my ears that, weak, believed,Fancied joys have I received,And undoubted miseries.Seeming pleasures once me crownedWith the buoyancy of youth,But the evils in their truthTo my sorrow do redound.
Hence I judge and know full well,And it cannot be denied,That its glory and its prideLove hath at the gates of hell;Whoso doth not set his gazeUpon Love, from joy to painBy oblivion and disdainIs brought in a moment's space.
With such swiftness thou hast wroughtThis mysterious transformation,That already desperationAnd not gain becomes my lot;For methinks 'twas yesterdayThou didst love me, or didst feignLove at least, for this is plain,What I must believe to-day.
Still thy pleasing voice I hearUttering sweet and witty things,Still thy loving reasoningsAre resounding in my ear;But these memories at last,Though they please, yet torture more,Since away the breezes boreWords and works adown the blast.
Wert thou she who in her prideSwore her days on earth should end,If she did not love her friendMore than all she loved beside?Wert thou she who to me showedHow she loved with such good-will,That, although I was her ill,She did hold me for her good?
Oh if but I could thee hateAs thou hatest me, thy nameWould I brand with fitting shame,Since thou'rt thankless and ingrate;Yet it useless is for meThus to hate thee and disdain,Love to me is greater gainThan forgetfulness to thee.
To my singing sad lament,To my springtime winter's snow,To my laughter bitter woeThy relentless hand hath sentIt has changed my joyous dressTo the garb of those that mourn,Love's soft flower to poignant thorn,Love's sweet fruit to bitterness.
Thou wilt say—thereat I bleed—That thy marriage to this swain,Thy forgetfulness again,Is a noble honest deed;If it were not known to theeThat in thy betrothal hourMy life ended evermore,Then I might admit thy plea.
But thy pleasure in a wordPleasure was; but 'twas not just,Since my faith and loyal trustDid but earn unjust reward;For my faith, since it doth seeHow to show its faithfulness,Wanes not through thy fickleness,Faints not through my misery.
None will wonder—surely no man,When he comes to know the truth,Seeing that I am a youth,And, Silveria, thou art woman;Ever in her, we believe,Hath its home inconstancy;Second nature 'tis to meThus to suffer and to grieve.
Thee a wedded bride I viewNow repentant, making moan,For it is a fact well knownThat thou wilt in naught be true;Gladly seek the yoke to bearThat thou on thy neck didst cast,For thou may'st it hate at last,But for ever 'twill be there.
Yet so fickle is thy state,And thy mood is so severe,That what yesterday was dearThou must needs to-morrow hate;Hence in some mysterious way,'Lovely 'midst her fickleness,Fickle 'midst her loveliness,'He who speaks of thee will say.
The shepherds did not think ill of Mireno's verses, but of the occasion for which they had been made, considering with what rapidity Silveria's fickleness had brought him to the pass of abandoning his beloved country and dear friends, each one fearful lest, as the result of his suit, the same thing might happen to him. Then, after they had entered the village and come to where Daranio and Silveria were, the festivities began with as much joy and merriment as had been seen for a long time on the banks of the Tagus; for, as Daranio was one of the richest shepherds of all that district, and Silveria one of the fairest shepherdesses of all the river-side, all or most of the shepherds of those parts assisted at their wedding. And so there was a fine gathering of discreet shepherds and fair shepherdesses, and amongst those who excelled the rest in many different qualities were the sad Orompo, the jealous Orfenio, the absent Crisio, and the love-lorn Marsilio, all youths and all in love, though oppressed by different passions, for sad Orompo was tormented by the untimely death of his beloved Listea, jealous Orfenio by the unbearable rage of jealousy, being in love with the fair shepherdess Eandra, absent Crisio by seeing himself parted from Claraura, a fair and discreet shepherdess, whom he counted his only joy, and despairing Marsilio by the hatred against him existing in Belisa's breast. They were all friends and from the same village; each was not ignorant of the other's love, but, on the contrary, in mournful rivalry they had ofttimes come together, each to extol the cause of his torment, seeking each one to show, as best he could, that his grief exceeded every other, counting it the highest glory to be superior in pain; and all had such wit, or, to express it better, suffered such grief, that, however they might indicate it, they showed it was the greatest that could be imagined. Through these disputes and rivalries they were famous and renowned on all the banks of the Tagus, and had caused in Thyrsis and Damon desire to know them; and, seeing them there together, they offered one another courteous and pleasing greetings, all especially regarding with admiration the two shepherds Thyrsis and Damon, up till then only known to them by repute. At this moment came the rich shepherd Daranio, dressed in mountain garb; he wore a high-necked smock with pleated collar, a frieze vest, a green coat cut low at the neck, breeches of fine linen, blue gaiters, round shoes, a studded belt, and a quartered bonnet the colour of the coat. No less finely adorned came forth his bride Silveria, for she came with skirt and bodice of fawn, bordered with white satin, a tucker worked with blue and green, a neckerchief of yellow thread sprinkled with silver embroidery, the contrivance of Galatea and Florisa, who dressed her, a turquoise-coloured coif with fringes of red silk,gilded pattens of cork, dainty close-fitting shoes, rich corals, a ring of gold, and above all her beauty, which adorned her more than all. After her came the peerless Galatea, like the sun after the dawn, and her friend Florisa, with many other fair shepherdesses, who had come to the wedding to honour it; and amongst them, too, came Teolinda, taking care to conceal her face from the eyes of Damon and Thyrsis, so as not to be recognised by them. And straightway the shepherdesses, following the shepherds their guides, to the sound of many rustic instruments, made their way to the temple, during which time Elicio and Erastro found time to feast their eyes on Galatea's fair countenance, desiring that that way might last longer than the long wandering of Ulysses. And, at the joy of seeing her, Erastro was so beside himself, that addressing Elicio he said to him:
'What are you looking at, shepherd, if you are not looking at Galatea? But how will you be able to look at the sun of her locks, the heaven of her brow, the stars of her eyes, the snow of her countenance, the crimson of her cheeks, the colour of her lips, the ivory of her teeth, the crystal of her neck, and the marble of her breast?'
'All this have I been able to see, oh Erastro,' replied Elicio, 'and naught of all you have said is the cause of my torment, but it is the hardness of her disposition, for if it were not such as you know, all the graces and beauties you recognise in Galatea would be the occasion of our greater glory.'
'You say well,' said Erastro; 'but yet you will not be able to deny to me, that if Galatea were not so fair, she would not be so desired, and if she were not so desired, our pain would not be so great, since it all springs from desire.'
'I cannot deny to you, Erastro,' replied Elicio, 'that all grief and sorrow whatsoever springs from the want and lack of that which we desire; but at the same time I wish to tell you that the quality of the love with which I thought you loved Galatea has fallen greatly in my estimation, for if you merely love her because she is fair, she has very little to thank you for, since there will be no man, however rustic he be, who sees her but desires her, for beauty, wherever it be, carries with it the power of creating desire. Thus no reward is due to this simple desire, because it is so natural, for if it were due, by merely desiring Heaven, we would have deserved it. But you see already, Erastro, that the opposite is so much the case, as our true law has shown to us; and granted that beauty and loveliness are a principal factor in attracting us to desire them and to seek to enjoy them, he who would be a true lover must not count such enjoyment his highest good; but rather, though beauty causes this desire in him, he must love the one only because the desire is honourable, without any other interest moving him, andthis can be called, even in things of this life, perfect and true love, and is worthy of gratitude and reward. Just as we see that the Maker of all things openly and fittingly rewards those who, not being moved by any other interest, whether of fear, pain, or hope of glory, love Him, worship Him, and serve Him only because he is good and worthy of being worshipped; and this is the last and greatest perfection contained in divine love, and in human love, too, when one does not love except because what one loves is good, without there being an error of judgment, for ofttimes the bad seems to us good, and the good bad, and so we love the one and abhor the other, and such love as this does not deserve reward but punishment. I wish to imply from all I have said, oh Erastro, that if you love and worship Galatea's beauty with intent to enjoy it, and the goal of your desire stops at this point without passing on to love her virtue, her increase of fame, her welfare, her life and prosperity, know that you do not love as you ought, nor ought you to be rewarded as you wish.'
Erastro would fain have replied to Elicio, and given him to understand that he did not understand rightly concerning the love with which he loved Galatea; but this was prevented by the sound of the pipe of loveless Lenio, who also wished to be present at Daranio's wedding, and to gladden the festivities with his song; and so setting himself in front of the betrothed pair, whilst they were going to the temple, to the sound of Eugenio's rebeck he went singing these verses: