So great was the desire the love-sick Timbrio and the two fair sisters Nisida and Blanca felt to reach Silerio's hermitage that the swiftness of their steps, though it was great, could not come up to that of their will; and, knowing this, Thyrsis and Damon would not press Timbrio to fulfil the word he had given to relate to them on the way all that had happened during his travels after he departed from Silerio. Nevertheless, carried away by the desire they had to learn it, they were just going to ask it of him, had there not at that moment smitten the ears of all the voice of a shepherd, who was singing amongst some green trees a little way off the road; from the somewhat untuneful sound of his voice, and from what he was singing, he was at once recognised by most of those who were coming along, especially by his friend Damon, for it was the shepherd Lauso who was repeating some verses to the sound of a small rebeck. And because the shepherd was so well known, and all had learned of the change which had taken place in his inclination, they checked their steps of one accord, and stopped to listen to what Lauso was singing, which was this:
LAUSO.
Who hath come a slave to makeOf my thought, with freedom filled?Who, where fortune did forsake,Lofty towers of wind could buildOn foundations doomed to break?Who my freedom took away,What time I in safety lay,And with life was satisfied?Who my breast hath opened wide,And hath made my will decay?Whither hath the fancy flownOf my scornful, loveless mind?Whither the soul I called my own?And the heart that none may findWhere it was—whither hath it gone?Where can my whole being be?Whence come I and whither flee?Know I aught of this my pass?Am I he that once I was,Or have I been never he?On myself I call to explain,Yet I cannot prove the truth,Since to this pass I attainThat of what I was in youthBut a shadow I remain;Knowledge how myself to know,Help to help myself—these goFar from me, and sure I findWoe 'midst such confusion blind,Yet I think not of my woe.In this hapless state I lie,Captive to my sorrow's power,To the love that doth comply,Thus the present I adore,And bewail the days gone by;In the present I perceiveThat I die, and that I liveIn the past; now death I holdSweet, and in the days of oldFate, that bliss no more can give.Blind am I, my woe is greatIn so strange an agony,For I see that Love doth prate,And that in the flames I lie,Yet 'tis water cold I hate;Save the water from mine eyes,Of the fire the fuel and prize,In the forge of Love I craveWater none, nor seek to haveOther comfort to my sighs.All my bliss would now begin,All my sorrow now would end,If my fortune willed hereinThat my faith should from my friendFor its truth assurance win;Come and tell Silena, sighs,Come, instruct Silena, eyesFilled with tears, that this is true;Come, confirm it, each of you,Pen and tongue and faculties.
Who hath come a slave to makeOf my thought, with freedom filled?Who, where fortune did forsake,Lofty towers of wind could buildOn foundations doomed to break?Who my freedom took away,What time I in safety lay,And with life was satisfied?Who my breast hath opened wide,And hath made my will decay?Whither hath the fancy flownOf my scornful, loveless mind?Whither the soul I called my own?And the heart that none may findWhere it was—whither hath it gone?Where can my whole being be?Whence come I and whither flee?Know I aught of this my pass?Am I he that once I was,Or have I been never he?On myself I call to explain,Yet I cannot prove the truth,Since to this pass I attainThat of what I was in youthBut a shadow I remain;Knowledge how myself to know,Help to help myself—these goFar from me, and sure I findWoe 'midst such confusion blind,Yet I think not of my woe.In this hapless state I lie,Captive to my sorrow's power,To the love that doth comply,Thus the present I adore,And bewail the days gone by;In the present I perceiveThat I die, and that I liveIn the past; now death I holdSweet, and in the days of oldFate, that bliss no more can give.Blind am I, my woe is greatIn so strange an agony,For I see that Love doth prate,And that in the flames I lie,Yet 'tis water cold I hate;Save the water from mine eyes,Of the fire the fuel and prize,In the forge of Love I craveWater none, nor seek to haveOther comfort to my sighs.All my bliss would now begin,All my sorrow now would end,If my fortune willed hereinThat my faith should from my friendFor its truth assurance win;Come and tell Silena, sighs,Come, instruct Silena, eyesFilled with tears, that this is true;Come, confirm it, each of you,Pen and tongue and faculties.
Who hath come a slave to makeOf my thought, with freedom filled?Who, where fortune did forsake,Lofty towers of wind could buildOn foundations doomed to break?Who my freedom took away,What time I in safety lay,And with life was satisfied?Who my breast hath opened wide,And hath made my will decay?
Whither hath the fancy flownOf my scornful, loveless mind?Whither the soul I called my own?And the heart that none may findWhere it was—whither hath it gone?Where can my whole being be?Whence come I and whither flee?Know I aught of this my pass?Am I he that once I was,Or have I been never he?
On myself I call to explain,Yet I cannot prove the truth,Since to this pass I attainThat of what I was in youthBut a shadow I remain;Knowledge how myself to know,Help to help myself—these goFar from me, and sure I findWoe 'midst such confusion blind,Yet I think not of my woe.
In this hapless state I lie,Captive to my sorrow's power,To the love that doth comply,Thus the present I adore,And bewail the days gone by;In the present I perceiveThat I die, and that I liveIn the past; now death I holdSweet, and in the days of oldFate, that bliss no more can give.
Blind am I, my woe is greatIn so strange an agony,For I see that Love doth prate,And that in the flames I lie,Yet 'tis water cold I hate;Save the water from mine eyes,Of the fire the fuel and prize,In the forge of Love I craveWater none, nor seek to haveOther comfort to my sighs.
All my bliss would now begin,All my sorrow now would end,If my fortune willed hereinThat my faith should from my friendFor its truth assurance win;Come and tell Silena, sighs,Come, instruct Silena, eyesFilled with tears, that this is true;Come, confirm it, each of you,Pen and tongue and faculties.
The eager Timbrio neither could nor would wait for the shepherd Lauso to proceed further with his song, for, begging the shepherds to show him the way of the hermitage, if they wished to remain, he gave signs of going on, and so all followed him, and they passed so near to where the love-sick Lauso was, that he could not fail to perceive it, and to come forth to meet them, as he did; and all were delighted with his company, especially Damon, his true friend, whom he accompanied all the way there was from there to the hermitage, discoursing on the different events that had happened to the two since they ceased seeing each other, which was from the time the valorous and renowned shepherd Astraliano had left the Cisalpine pastures, to go and bring back those who had rebelled from his famous brother and from the true religion. And at last they came to bring back their discourse to treat of Lauso's love, Damon asking him earnestly to tell him who the shepherdess was who with such ease had won him from free will; and when he could not learn this from Lauso he begged him with all earnestness at least to tell him in what state he was, whether of fear or of hope, whether ingratitude harassed him, or whether jealousy tormented him. To all this Lauso answered satisfactorily, telling him some things that had happened to him with his shepherdess; and among other things he told him, how, finding himself one day jealous and out of favour, he had come to the pass of putting an end to himself, or of giving some token that might redound to the hurt of his person and to the credit and honour of his shepherdess, but all was remedied when he had spoken to her, and she had assured him that the suspicion he had was false. All this being confirmed by her giving him a ring from her hand, which caused his understanding to return to a better course, and that favour to be celebrated by a sonnet, which was counted for good by some who saw it. Damon then asked Lauso to repeat it; and so, without being able to excuse himself, he had to repeat it, and it was this:
LAUSO.
Love's rich and happy gage, that didst adornThe precious ivory and the snow so pure!Love's gage that didst from death and gloom obscureUnto new light and life bid me return!The hell of my misfortune thou didst turnTo the heaven of thy bliss, and thou didst lureMy hope to live in sweetest peace secure,—The hope that thou didst cause once more to burn.Dost know what thou dost cost me, gage of love?My soul, and yet I am not satisfied,Since less I give than what I do receive.But, that the world thy worth may know and prove,Be thou my soul, be hidden in my side!All shall see how for thee I soulless live.
Love's rich and happy gage, that didst adornThe precious ivory and the snow so pure!Love's gage that didst from death and gloom obscureUnto new light and life bid me return!The hell of my misfortune thou didst turnTo the heaven of thy bliss, and thou didst lureMy hope to live in sweetest peace secure,—The hope that thou didst cause once more to burn.Dost know what thou dost cost me, gage of love?My soul, and yet I am not satisfied,Since less I give than what I do receive.But, that the world thy worth may know and prove,Be thou my soul, be hidden in my side!All shall see how for thee I soulless live.
Love's rich and happy gage, that didst adornThe precious ivory and the snow so pure!Love's gage that didst from death and gloom obscureUnto new light and life bid me return!
The hell of my misfortune thou didst turnTo the heaven of thy bliss, and thou didst lureMy hope to live in sweetest peace secure,—The hope that thou didst cause once more to burn.
Dost know what thou dost cost me, gage of love?My soul, and yet I am not satisfied,Since less I give than what I do receive.
But, that the world thy worth may know and prove,Be thou my soul, be hidden in my side!All shall see how for thee I soulless live.
Lauso repeated the sonnet, and Damon again asked him, if he had written anything else to his shepherdess, to repeat it to him, since he knew how pleasant his verses were for him to hear. To this Lauso replied:
'This will be, Damon, because you have been my master therein, and the desire you have to see what improvement you have wrought in me makes you desire to hear them; but let this be as it may, for nothing that I could do must be denied you. And so I tell you that in these same days, when I was jealous and ill at ease, I sent these verses to my shepherdess.'
LAUSO TOSILENA.
In this great wholeheartednessFrom the healthy purpose sprung,'Tis Love guides the hand alongAnd the thought thy loveliness;Love, Silena, in this hour,And thy loveliness so fair,Will account discretion rareWhat thou wilt deem folly sure.Love constrains, loveliness movethMe to adore thee, and to write;Since my faith the twain uprightHold, my hand its courage proveth;And in this my fault so great,Though thy rigour threateneth,Love, thy loveliness, my faith,Will my error palliate.Since with helpers such as these,Though they blame me, ne'ertheless,I can well the bliss expressSprung from mine own miseries;And this bliss, full well I know,Is naught else, Silena fair,Save that I amid my careShould a wondrous patience show.No small pleasure makes me glad,For in patience lies my bliss;Were it not so, long ere this,Had my misery made me mad;But my senses all agree,All together join to cry,That I, though I needs must die,May die wise and patiently.After all, the jealous one,Whom none loveth, scarce will beAble to bear patiently,When he makes his love-sick moan;Since, amid my agonies,All my bliss is banishèd,When I see that hope is dead,And the foe before my eyes.Countless years, my shepherdess,Revel in thy blissful thought,For I seek no pleasure boughtWith thy sorrow or distress;Follow ever, lady fair,Thy desire, since 'tis thy pleasure,For I, for another's treasure,Think not e'er to shed a tear.For it had been levityTo the soul my soul to yield,Which hath as its glory heldThat it hath not liberty;But, ah me! fortune doth will—And Love also doth agree—That my neck is not to fleeFrom the knife that doth me kill.Now I go—I know too plain—After one that shall me doom,And when thoughts of parting come,I more firm and fixed remain;Ah, what bonds, what nets I find,Dearest! in thine eyes so bright,Which, the more I take to flight,Hold the more, the faster bind!Eyes, alas! ye make me fear,That if ye but look on me,Lesser shall my solace be,And the greater grow my care;'Tis a truth none can gainsay,That the glances ye bestowOn me, are but feigned, for, lo!Cruelly they my love repay.With what dread and fear oppressedEver is my loving mind!And what opposites I findIn the love within my breast!Leave me, poignant memory,Forget, nor another's blissCall to mind, for lost in thisThine own glory is to thee.With such tokens thou affirmestThe love that is in thy breast;By thy wrath I am oppressed,Ever thou my woes confirmest;By what laws of thine am IDoomed to yield, Love, traitor fell!Soul unto Silena's spell,While she doth a word deny?On points rousing bitter strifeI but for a moment dwell,For the least of them might wellLeave me mad or without life;Let my pen no further go,Since thou mak'st it feel its doom,'Tis not in my power to sumIn brief words so great a woe.
In this great wholeheartednessFrom the healthy purpose sprung,'Tis Love guides the hand alongAnd the thought thy loveliness;Love, Silena, in this hour,And thy loveliness so fair,Will account discretion rareWhat thou wilt deem folly sure.Love constrains, loveliness movethMe to adore thee, and to write;Since my faith the twain uprightHold, my hand its courage proveth;And in this my fault so great,Though thy rigour threateneth,Love, thy loveliness, my faith,Will my error palliate.Since with helpers such as these,Though they blame me, ne'ertheless,I can well the bliss expressSprung from mine own miseries;And this bliss, full well I know,Is naught else, Silena fair,Save that I amid my careShould a wondrous patience show.No small pleasure makes me glad,For in patience lies my bliss;Were it not so, long ere this,Had my misery made me mad;But my senses all agree,All together join to cry,That I, though I needs must die,May die wise and patiently.After all, the jealous one,Whom none loveth, scarce will beAble to bear patiently,When he makes his love-sick moan;Since, amid my agonies,All my bliss is banishèd,When I see that hope is dead,And the foe before my eyes.Countless years, my shepherdess,Revel in thy blissful thought,For I seek no pleasure boughtWith thy sorrow or distress;Follow ever, lady fair,Thy desire, since 'tis thy pleasure,For I, for another's treasure,Think not e'er to shed a tear.For it had been levityTo the soul my soul to yield,Which hath as its glory heldThat it hath not liberty;But, ah me! fortune doth will—And Love also doth agree—That my neck is not to fleeFrom the knife that doth me kill.Now I go—I know too plain—After one that shall me doom,And when thoughts of parting come,I more firm and fixed remain;Ah, what bonds, what nets I find,Dearest! in thine eyes so bright,Which, the more I take to flight,Hold the more, the faster bind!Eyes, alas! ye make me fear,That if ye but look on me,Lesser shall my solace be,And the greater grow my care;'Tis a truth none can gainsay,That the glances ye bestowOn me, are but feigned, for, lo!Cruelly they my love repay.With what dread and fear oppressedEver is my loving mind!And what opposites I findIn the love within my breast!Leave me, poignant memory,Forget, nor another's blissCall to mind, for lost in thisThine own glory is to thee.With such tokens thou affirmestThe love that is in thy breast;By thy wrath I am oppressed,Ever thou my woes confirmest;By what laws of thine am IDoomed to yield, Love, traitor fell!Soul unto Silena's spell,While she doth a word deny?On points rousing bitter strifeI but for a moment dwell,For the least of them might wellLeave me mad or without life;Let my pen no further go,Since thou mak'st it feel its doom,'Tis not in my power to sumIn brief words so great a woe.
In this great wholeheartednessFrom the healthy purpose sprung,'Tis Love guides the hand alongAnd the thought thy loveliness;Love, Silena, in this hour,And thy loveliness so fair,Will account discretion rareWhat thou wilt deem folly sure.
Love constrains, loveliness movethMe to adore thee, and to write;Since my faith the twain uprightHold, my hand its courage proveth;And in this my fault so great,Though thy rigour threateneth,Love, thy loveliness, my faith,Will my error palliate.
Since with helpers such as these,Though they blame me, ne'ertheless,I can well the bliss expressSprung from mine own miseries;And this bliss, full well I know,Is naught else, Silena fair,Save that I amid my careShould a wondrous patience show.
No small pleasure makes me glad,For in patience lies my bliss;Were it not so, long ere this,Had my misery made me mad;But my senses all agree,All together join to cry,That I, though I needs must die,May die wise and patiently.
After all, the jealous one,Whom none loveth, scarce will beAble to bear patiently,When he makes his love-sick moan;Since, amid my agonies,All my bliss is banishèd,When I see that hope is dead,And the foe before my eyes.
Countless years, my shepherdess,Revel in thy blissful thought,For I seek no pleasure boughtWith thy sorrow or distress;Follow ever, lady fair,Thy desire, since 'tis thy pleasure,For I, for another's treasure,Think not e'er to shed a tear.
For it had been levityTo the soul my soul to yield,Which hath as its glory heldThat it hath not liberty;But, ah me! fortune doth will—And Love also doth agree—That my neck is not to fleeFrom the knife that doth me kill.
Now I go—I know too plain—After one that shall me doom,And when thoughts of parting come,I more firm and fixed remain;Ah, what bonds, what nets I find,Dearest! in thine eyes so bright,Which, the more I take to flight,Hold the more, the faster bind!
Eyes, alas! ye make me fear,That if ye but look on me,Lesser shall my solace be,And the greater grow my care;'Tis a truth none can gainsay,That the glances ye bestowOn me, are but feigned, for, lo!Cruelly they my love repay.
With what dread and fear oppressedEver is my loving mind!And what opposites I findIn the love within my breast!Leave me, poignant memory,Forget, nor another's blissCall to mind, for lost in thisThine own glory is to thee.
With such tokens thou affirmestThe love that is in thy breast;By thy wrath I am oppressed,Ever thou my woes confirmest;By what laws of thine am IDoomed to yield, Love, traitor fell!Soul unto Silena's spell,While she doth a word deny?
On points rousing bitter strifeI but for a moment dwell,For the least of them might wellLeave me mad or without life;Let my pen no further go,Since thou mak'st it feel its doom,'Tis not in my power to sumIn brief words so great a woe.
Whilst Lauso was occupied in repeating these verses, and in praising the unwonted beauty, discretion, grace, modesty, and worth of his shepherdess, the tedium of the way was lightened for him and Damon, and the time passed for them without being perceived, until they came near to Silerio's hermitage, which Timbrio, Nisida, and Blanca would not enter, so as not to alarm him by their unexpected arrival. But fate ordained it otherwise, for Thyrsis and Damon having approached to see what Silerio was doing, found the hermitage open, and without any one inside; and whilst they were filled with astonishment, without knowing where Silerio could be at such an hour, there came to their ears the sound of his harp, from which they understood that he could not be far away. And going to look forhim, guided by the sound of the harp, they saw by the bright radiance of the moon, that he was seated on the trunk of an olive, alone and without other company than that of his harp, which he was playing so sweetly that to enjoy so gentle a harmony, the shepherds would not approach to speak to him, and the more so when they heard him beginning to sing with exquisite voice these verses:
SILERIO.
Swift fleeting hours of swiftly fleeting time,That pass me by with wearied flight and slow,If ye are not conspired unto my woe,Be pleased to end me now, for 'tis full time.If now ye end me, 'twill be at a timeWhen my misfortunes can no further go;See, if ye linger, they will lesser grow,For evil endeth if it bides its time.I do not ask that ye should come, with pleasureAnd sweetness filled, since ye no path will gainTo the life I have lost to lead me back.Hours, to all others blissful beyond measure,Grant me but the sweet hour of mortal pain,Even death's hour—this boon alone I lack.
Swift fleeting hours of swiftly fleeting time,That pass me by with wearied flight and slow,If ye are not conspired unto my woe,Be pleased to end me now, for 'tis full time.If now ye end me, 'twill be at a timeWhen my misfortunes can no further go;See, if ye linger, they will lesser grow,For evil endeth if it bides its time.I do not ask that ye should come, with pleasureAnd sweetness filled, since ye no path will gainTo the life I have lost to lead me back.Hours, to all others blissful beyond measure,Grant me but the sweet hour of mortal pain,Even death's hour—this boon alone I lack.
Swift fleeting hours of swiftly fleeting time,That pass me by with wearied flight and slow,If ye are not conspired unto my woe,Be pleased to end me now, for 'tis full time.
If now ye end me, 'twill be at a timeWhen my misfortunes can no further go;See, if ye linger, they will lesser grow,For evil endeth if it bides its time.
I do not ask that ye should come, with pleasureAnd sweetness filled, since ye no path will gainTo the life I have lost to lead me back.
Hours, to all others blissful beyond measure,Grant me but the sweet hour of mortal pain,Even death's hour—this boon alone I lack.
After the shepherds listened to what Silerio had sung without his seeing them, they turned to meet the others who were coming there, with the intent that Timbrio should do what you shall now hear. This was, that, having told him how they had found Silerio, and in the place where he was, Thyrsis asked him that, without any of them letting themselves be recognised by him, they should gradually go approaching towards him, whether he saw them or not—for though the night was bright, no one would be recognised on that account—and that he should likewise make Nisida or himself sing something; and all this he did to moderate the joy Silerio must needs feel from their arrival. Timbrio was satisfied with this, and Nisida, being told it, came to be of his opinion too; and so, when it seemed to Thyrsis that they were now so near that they could be heard by Silerio, he caused the fair Nisida to begin; and she, to the sound of the jealous Orfenio's rebeck, began to sing in this wise:
NISIDA.
Though my soul is satisfiedWith the bliss which is my own,'Tis in part racked and undoneBy another's bliss denied;Fortune scant and Love bestow—Enemies unto my pleasure—On me bliss in niggard measure,And unmeasured endless woe.In the state by Love befriendedAlthough merit may abound,Pleasure is as lonely found,E'en as evil comes attended;Evils aye in unityWalk, nor for a moment sever,Blisses are divided everThat their end may sooner be.What it costeth to attainAny joy of love so fair,Let our love and hope declare,And our patience make it plain;One bliss untold agonyCosteth, one joy untold sighs—Ah! they know it well, my sighsAnd my wearied memory.Which forever hath in mindThat which power to help it hathYet to find it, road or pathNowhere doth the memory find;Ah! sweet friend of that fair youthWho did call thee friend, when heClaimed the name of friend from thee,E'en as I am his in truth!Our unthought-of happinessGroweth better when thou'rt near,Let not thy cruel absence drearTurn it to unhappiness;Anguish sore the memoryRouseth, that reminds me howI was wise, and foolish thou,Thou art wise, and foolish I.More he lost in losing thee—He to whom, fortune thy guide,Thou didst give me as his bride—Than he won in winning me;Half his soul in thee he had,Thou wert he, by whom my soulCould attain the happy goalThat thine absence maketh sad.
Though my soul is satisfiedWith the bliss which is my own,'Tis in part racked and undoneBy another's bliss denied;Fortune scant and Love bestow—Enemies unto my pleasure—On me bliss in niggard measure,And unmeasured endless woe.In the state by Love befriendedAlthough merit may abound,Pleasure is as lonely found,E'en as evil comes attended;Evils aye in unityWalk, nor for a moment sever,Blisses are divided everThat their end may sooner be.What it costeth to attainAny joy of love so fair,Let our love and hope declare,And our patience make it plain;One bliss untold agonyCosteth, one joy untold sighs—Ah! they know it well, my sighsAnd my wearied memory.Which forever hath in mindThat which power to help it hathYet to find it, road or pathNowhere doth the memory find;Ah! sweet friend of that fair youthWho did call thee friend, when heClaimed the name of friend from thee,E'en as I am his in truth!Our unthought-of happinessGroweth better when thou'rt near,Let not thy cruel absence drearTurn it to unhappiness;Anguish sore the memoryRouseth, that reminds me howI was wise, and foolish thou,Thou art wise, and foolish I.More he lost in losing thee—He to whom, fortune thy guide,Thou didst give me as his bride—Than he won in winning me;Half his soul in thee he had,Thou wert he, by whom my soulCould attain the happy goalThat thine absence maketh sad.
Though my soul is satisfiedWith the bliss which is my own,'Tis in part racked and undoneBy another's bliss denied;Fortune scant and Love bestow—Enemies unto my pleasure—On me bliss in niggard measure,And unmeasured endless woe.
In the state by Love befriendedAlthough merit may abound,Pleasure is as lonely found,E'en as evil comes attended;Evils aye in unityWalk, nor for a moment sever,Blisses are divided everThat their end may sooner be.
What it costeth to attainAny joy of love so fair,Let our love and hope declare,And our patience make it plain;One bliss untold agonyCosteth, one joy untold sighs—Ah! they know it well, my sighsAnd my wearied memory.
Which forever hath in mindThat which power to help it hathYet to find it, road or pathNowhere doth the memory find;Ah! sweet friend of that fair youthWho did call thee friend, when heClaimed the name of friend from thee,E'en as I am his in truth!
Our unthought-of happinessGroweth better when thou'rt near,Let not thy cruel absence drearTurn it to unhappiness;Anguish sore the memoryRouseth, that reminds me howI was wise, and foolish thou,Thou art wise, and foolish I.
More he lost in losing thee—He to whom, fortune thy guide,Thou didst give me as his bride—Than he won in winning me;Half his soul in thee he had,Thou wert he, by whom my soulCould attain the happy goalThat thine absence maketh sad.
If the exquisite grace with which the fair Nisida was singing, caused admiration in those who were with her, what would it cause in the breast of Silerio, who, without missing anything, noted and listened to all the details of her song? And as he retained Nisida's voice so well in his soul, its accentsscarce began to resound in his ears when he came to be perturbed, and amazed and to be beside himself, enraptured by what he heard. And though truly it seemed to him that it was Nisida's voice, he had so lost the hope of seeing her, and above all in such a place, that in no way could he make sure of his suspicion. In this manner all came to where he was; and Thyrsis, greeting him, said to him:
'You left us, friend Silerio, so attracted by your disposition and converse, that Damon and I, drawn by experience of them, and all this company by their fame, leaving the way we were taking, have come to seek you in your hermitage, and when we did not find you there, as we did not, our desire would have remained unfulfilled, had not the sound of your harp and of your admirable song guided us here.'
'Far better had it been, sirs,' replied Silerio, 'that you had not found me, since in me you will find naught save occasions to move you to sadness, for the sadness I endure in my soul time takes care each day to renew, not only with the memory of the past happiness, but with the shadows of the present, which at last will be so indeed, since from my fortune naught else can be hoped for, save feigned happiness and certain fear.'
Silerio's words caused pity in all who knew him, especially in Timbrio, Nisida, and Blanca, who loved him so much, and they would straightway have let themselves be known by him had it not been that it would be deviating from what Thyrsis had bidden them. He made them all sit down on the green grass, and in such a way that the rays of the bright moon should strike the faces of Nisida and Blanca from behind, in order that Silerio might not recognise them. Being then in this fashion, and after Damon had said some words of consolation to Silerio, in order that the time should not be spent wholly in discoursing on things of sadness, and to make a beginning, so that Silerio's sadness might end, he begged him to play his harp, to the sound of which Damon himself sang this sonnet:
DAMON.
If the wild fury of the angry mainShould long time in its ruthlessness endure,Whoso should to the storm his vessel, poorAnd frail, entrust, could little comfort gain.Bliss doth not always in one state remain,Nor woe, but each of them doth fly away,For if bliss were to flee, and woe to stay,Ere this the world had been confusion plain.Night follows after day, heat after cold,After the fruit the flower, and thus we findOpposites reconciling everywhere.Meek slavery is changed to lordship bold,Pain into pleasure, glory into wind,'For nature is by such transformings fair.'
If the wild fury of the angry mainShould long time in its ruthlessness endure,Whoso should to the storm his vessel, poorAnd frail, entrust, could little comfort gain.Bliss doth not always in one state remain,Nor woe, but each of them doth fly away,For if bliss were to flee, and woe to stay,Ere this the world had been confusion plain.Night follows after day, heat after cold,After the fruit the flower, and thus we findOpposites reconciling everywhere.Meek slavery is changed to lordship bold,Pain into pleasure, glory into wind,'For nature is by such transformings fair.'
If the wild fury of the angry mainShould long time in its ruthlessness endure,Whoso should to the storm his vessel, poorAnd frail, entrust, could little comfort gain.
Bliss doth not always in one state remain,Nor woe, but each of them doth fly away,For if bliss were to flee, and woe to stay,Ere this the world had been confusion plain.
Night follows after day, heat after cold,After the fruit the flower, and thus we findOpposites reconciling everywhere.
Meek slavery is changed to lordship bold,Pain into pleasure, glory into wind,'For nature is by such transformings fair.'
Damon ceased singing, and straightway beckoned to Timbrio to sing likewise. He, to the sound of Silerio's harp, began a sonnet which he had composed in the time of his love's fervour, which was as well known to Silerio as to Timbrio himself.
TIMBRIO.
My hope is builded on so sure a baseThat, though the fiercer blow the ruthless wind,It cannot shake the bonds that firmly bind,Such faith, such strength, such fortune it displays.
My hope is builded on so sure a baseThat, though the fiercer blow the ruthless wind,It cannot shake the bonds that firmly bind,Such faith, such strength, such fortune it displays.
My hope is builded on so sure a baseThat, though the fiercer blow the ruthless wind,It cannot shake the bonds that firmly bind,Such faith, such strength, such fortune it displays.
Timbrio could not end the sonnet he had begun, for Silerio's hearing of his voice and recognition of him took place together, and, unable to do aught else, he arose from where he was seated, and went to embrace Timbrio's neck with tokens of such strange content and surprise, that without speaking a word he became faint and was for a while without consciousness, with such grief on the part of those present, who feared some mishap, that they already condemned as evil Thyrsis's artifice; but she who showed the most extremes of grief was the fair Blanca, as the one who tenderly loved him. Straightway Nisida and her sister came up to give remedy to the swoon of Silerio, who after a little while came to himself, saying:
'Oh, mighty Heaven! is it possible that he I have before me is my true friend Timbrio? Is it Timbrio I hear, is it Timbrio I see? Yes it is, if my fortune does not mock me, and my eyes deceive me not.'
'Neither does your fortune mock you, nor do your eyes deceive you, my sweet friend,' replied Timbrio, 'for I am he who without you was not, and he who would never have been, had Heaven not permitted him to find you. Let your tears now cease, friend Silerio, if for me you have shed them, since now you have me here, for I will check mine, since I have you before me, calling myself the happiest of all that live in the world, since my misfortunes and adversities have been so discounted that my soul enjoys the possession of Nisida, and my eyes your presence.'
By these words of Timbrio's Silerio knew that she who had sung, and she who was there, was Nisida; but he was more sure of it, when she herself said to him:
'What is this, Silerio mine? What solitude and what garb is this, which gives such tokens of your discontent? What false suspicions or what deceptions have brought you to such an extreme, in order that Timbrio and I might endure the extreme of grief all our life, being absent from you who gave it to us?'
'They were deceptions, fair Nisida,' replied Silerio, 'but because they have brought such ways of undeceiving they will be celebrated by my memory so long as it shall last in me.'
For the most of this time Blanca had been holding one of Silerio's hands, gazing intently on his face, shedding some tears,which gave manifest proof of the joy and pity of her heart. It would be long to relate the words of love and content that passed between Silerio, Timbrio, Nisida, and Blanca, which were so tender and of such a kind, that all the shepherds who heard them had their eyes bathed in tears of joy. Straightway Silerio related briefly the cause that had moved him to withdraw to that hermitage, with the thought of ending therein his life, since of theirs he had not been able to learn any news; and all that he said was the means of kindling yet more in Timbrio's breast the love and friendship he had for Silerio, and in Blanca's friendship for his misery. And so when Silerio finished relating what had happened to him after he left Naples, he asked Timbrio to do the same, for he desired it extremely; saying that he should not be afraid of the shepherds who were present, for all or most of them already knew his great friendship and part of his adventures. Timbrio was delighted to do what Silerio asked, and the shepherds, who likewise desired it, were more delighted; for seeing that Thyrsis had told it to them, all knew already the love-affair of Timbrio and Nisida, and all that which Thyrsis himself had heard from Silerio. All then being seated, as I have already said, on the green grass, they were awaiting with wondrous attention what Timbrio would say, and he said:
'After fortune was so favourable to me and so adverse, that it allowed me to conquer my enemy and conquered me by the consternation of the false news of Nisida's death, with such sorrow as can be imagined, at that very moment I left for Naples, and Nisida's unlucky fate being confirmed there, so as not to see her father's house, where I had seen her, and in order that the streets, windows, and other spots where I was wont to see her, might not continually renew in me the memory of my past happiness, without knowing what way to take, without my will following any course, I went from the city, and in two days came to strong Gaeta, where I found a ship which was just on the point of unfurling its sails to the wind to leave for Spain; I embarked on it, only to flee from the hateful land where I was leaving my heaven. But scarcely had the busy sailors weighed anchor and spread their sails, and put out some distance to sea, when there arose a sudden and unthought-of tempest, and a squall of wind smote the ship's sails with such fury that it broke the foremast and split the mizzen sail from top to bottom. Straightway the ready sailors came to the rescue and with the greatest difficulty furled all the sails, for the tempest was increasing, and the sea was beginning to rise, and the sky was giving signs of a long and fearful storm. It was not possible to return to port, for the wind which blew was the mistral, and with such great violence that it was necessary to set the foresail on the mainmast, and to ease her, as they say, by the stern, letting her drive where the wind might will. And so the ship, driven by its fury,began to run with such speed over the stormy sea, that in the two days the mistral lasted, we ran by all the islands in that course, without being able to take shelter in any, passing always in sight of them, without Stromboli sheltering us, or Lipari receiving us, or Cimbalo, Lampadosa, or Pantanalea serving for our aid; and we passed so near to Barbary that the recently destroyed walls of the Goleta were revealed and the ancient ruins of Carthage showed themselves. Not small was the alarm of those on board the ship, who feared that if the wind became somewhat stronger, they must needs be driven on a hostile coast; but when they were most in fear of this, fate, which was keeping a better one in store for us, or Heaven which heard the vows and promises made there, ordained that the mistral should be changed into a south wind which was so strong—and which touched on the quarter of the sirocco,—that in another two days it brought us back to the very port of Gaeta from which we had started, with such relief to all that some set out to fulfil the pilgrimages and promises they had made in the past danger. The ship remained there, being refitted with some things she required, for another four days, at the end of which she resumed her voyage in a calmer sea and with a favourable wind, keeping in sight the fair coast of Genoa, full of gay gardens, white houses, and gleaming pinnacles, which, being struck by the sun's rays, flash with such burning rays that they can scarcely be looked at. All these things which were being seen from the ship, might have caused content, as indeed they did to all those who were on board the ship, except to me, for to me they were the cause of greater sorrow. The only relief I had was to occupy myself in lamenting my woes, singing them, or, let me say rather, bewailing them to the sound of a lute belonging to one of the sailors; and one night I remember—and indeed it is well that I should remember, since then my day began to dawn,—that, the sea being calm, the winds still, the sails fixed to the mast, and the sailors without any care lying stretched in different parts of the ship, and the helmsman almost asleep by reason of the fair weather there was, and that which the sky promised, in the midst of this silence and in the midst of my fancies, as my griefs did not suffer me to yield my eyes to sleep, seated on the poop, I took the lute, and began to sing some verses, which I must now repeat, in order that it may be noted from what extreme of sadness, and how without thinking it, fate led me to the greatest extreme of joy imaginable; this, if I remember right, was what I sang:
TIMBRIO.
Now that silent is the windAnd the peaceful sea at rest,Let my pain no silence find,For my grieving from my breastIssue soul with voice conjoined;To recount wherefore I grieve,Showing that my grief in partComes perforce, the soul must giveTokens, and likewise the heart,Of the deadly pangs that live.Once Love bore me off in flightThrough the ranks of bitter woe,Raising me to Heaven's height:Death and Love to earth belowNow have hurled this hapless wight;Love and death it was ordainedSuch a love and death as this,O'er sweet Nisida they reigned,From her woe and from my blissFame unending they attained.With new voice, more terribleHenceforth, and with awesome sound,Fame will make it credibleThat Love is a champion foundAnd death is invincible;Satisfied the world will beAt their might, whene'er it knowsHow the twain have wrought in me:Death her glorious life did close,Love my bosom holds in fee.But I think, since I am broughtNor to madness nor to deathBy the anguish they have wrought,That death little power hath,Or that feeling I have not;For if I but feeling had,So the increasing anguish strivesEverywhere to drive me mad,Though I had a thousand lives,Countless times had I been dead.My surpassing victoryBy the death was famous madeOf the life, which needs must beChief of all the past displayedOr the present age can see;Therefrom I achieved as prizeGrief within my loving heart,Countless tears within my eyes,In my soul confusion's smart,In my true breast agonies.Cruel hand of him my foe,Hadst thou but my doom fulfilled,I had held thee friend, for, lo!In the slaying thou hadst stilledAll the anguish of my woe!What a bitter reckoningVictory brought, for I shall pay—And I feel it as I sing—For the pleasure of a dayWith an age-long suffering!Sea, that hearkenest to my cry,Heaven, that didst my woe ordain,Love, that causest me to sigh,Death, that hast my glory ta'en,End ye now my agony!Sea, my lifeless corse receive,Heaven, to my soul grant thy calm,Love, to fame the tidings give,That death carried off the palmFrom this life that doth not live!Heaven, Love, and death and sea,Now to aid me linger not,Make an end of ending me,For 'twill be the happiest lotYe can give and I foresee!If sea doth not drowning give,And Heaven welcome doth deny,If Love must for ever live,And I fear I shall not die,Where can I repose receive?
Now that silent is the windAnd the peaceful sea at rest,Let my pain no silence find,For my grieving from my breastIssue soul with voice conjoined;To recount wherefore I grieve,Showing that my grief in partComes perforce, the soul must giveTokens, and likewise the heart,Of the deadly pangs that live.Once Love bore me off in flightThrough the ranks of bitter woe,Raising me to Heaven's height:Death and Love to earth belowNow have hurled this hapless wight;Love and death it was ordainedSuch a love and death as this,O'er sweet Nisida they reigned,From her woe and from my blissFame unending they attained.With new voice, more terribleHenceforth, and with awesome sound,Fame will make it credibleThat Love is a champion foundAnd death is invincible;Satisfied the world will beAt their might, whene'er it knowsHow the twain have wrought in me:Death her glorious life did close,Love my bosom holds in fee.But I think, since I am broughtNor to madness nor to deathBy the anguish they have wrought,That death little power hath,Or that feeling I have not;For if I but feeling had,So the increasing anguish strivesEverywhere to drive me mad,Though I had a thousand lives,Countless times had I been dead.My surpassing victoryBy the death was famous madeOf the life, which needs must beChief of all the past displayedOr the present age can see;Therefrom I achieved as prizeGrief within my loving heart,Countless tears within my eyes,In my soul confusion's smart,In my true breast agonies.Cruel hand of him my foe,Hadst thou but my doom fulfilled,I had held thee friend, for, lo!In the slaying thou hadst stilledAll the anguish of my woe!What a bitter reckoningVictory brought, for I shall pay—And I feel it as I sing—For the pleasure of a dayWith an age-long suffering!Sea, that hearkenest to my cry,Heaven, that didst my woe ordain,Love, that causest me to sigh,Death, that hast my glory ta'en,End ye now my agony!Sea, my lifeless corse receive,Heaven, to my soul grant thy calm,Love, to fame the tidings give,That death carried off the palmFrom this life that doth not live!Heaven, Love, and death and sea,Now to aid me linger not,Make an end of ending me,For 'twill be the happiest lotYe can give and I foresee!If sea doth not drowning give,And Heaven welcome doth deny,If Love must for ever live,And I fear I shall not die,Where can I repose receive?
Now that silent is the windAnd the peaceful sea at rest,Let my pain no silence find,For my grieving from my breastIssue soul with voice conjoined;To recount wherefore I grieve,Showing that my grief in partComes perforce, the soul must giveTokens, and likewise the heart,Of the deadly pangs that live.
Once Love bore me off in flightThrough the ranks of bitter woe,Raising me to Heaven's height:Death and Love to earth belowNow have hurled this hapless wight;Love and death it was ordainedSuch a love and death as this,O'er sweet Nisida they reigned,From her woe and from my blissFame unending they attained.
With new voice, more terribleHenceforth, and with awesome sound,Fame will make it credibleThat Love is a champion foundAnd death is invincible;Satisfied the world will beAt their might, whene'er it knowsHow the twain have wrought in me:Death her glorious life did close,Love my bosom holds in fee.
But I think, since I am broughtNor to madness nor to deathBy the anguish they have wrought,That death little power hath,Or that feeling I have not;For if I but feeling had,So the increasing anguish strivesEverywhere to drive me mad,Though I had a thousand lives,Countless times had I been dead.
My surpassing victoryBy the death was famous madeOf the life, which needs must beChief of all the past displayedOr the present age can see;Therefrom I achieved as prizeGrief within my loving heart,Countless tears within my eyes,In my soul confusion's smart,In my true breast agonies.
Cruel hand of him my foe,Hadst thou but my doom fulfilled,I had held thee friend, for, lo!In the slaying thou hadst stilledAll the anguish of my woe!What a bitter reckoningVictory brought, for I shall pay—And I feel it as I sing—For the pleasure of a dayWith an age-long suffering!
Sea, that hearkenest to my cry,Heaven, that didst my woe ordain,Love, that causest me to sigh,Death, that hast my glory ta'en,End ye now my agony!Sea, my lifeless corse receive,Heaven, to my soul grant thy calm,Love, to fame the tidings give,That death carried off the palmFrom this life that doth not live!
Heaven, Love, and death and sea,Now to aid me linger not,Make an end of ending me,For 'twill be the happiest lotYe can give and I foresee!If sea doth not drowning give,And Heaven welcome doth deny,If Love must for ever live,And I fear I shall not die,Where can I repose receive?
'I remember that I came to these last verses I have repeated, when, without being able to proceed further, interrupted by countless sighs and sobs which I sent forth from my hapless breast, afflicted by the memory of my misfortunes, from merely feeling them I came to lose my senses by such a paroxysm that for a good while it held me unconscious; but after the bitter attack had passed, I opened my wearied eyes and found my head lying in the lap of a woman, dressed in pilgrim's attire, and at my side was another, decked in the same garb, who was holding my hands whilst both wept tenderly. When I saw myself in that position, I was amazed and confused, and was doubting whether it was a vision I saw, for never had I seen such women in the ship since I had gone on board. But the fair Nisida here—for she was the pilgrim who was there—drew me from this confusion, saying to me: "Ah, Timbrio, my true lord and friend, what false fancies or what luckless accidentshave caused you to be placed where you now are, and my sister and me to take such little account of what we owed to our honour, and without heeding any difficulty to have wished to leave our beloved parents and our wonted garb, with the intention of looking for you and of undeceiving you about my so doubtful death which might have caused yours in reality?" When I heard such words, I became quite convinced that I was dreaming, and that it was some vision I had before my eyes, and that my ceaseless thoughts that did not depart from Nisida were the cause that represented her there to my eyes alive. A thousand questions I asked them and in all they completely satisfied me, before I could calm my understanding and assure myself that they were Nisida and Blanca. But when I came to learn the truth, the joy I felt was such that it, too, well-nigh brought me to the pass of losing my life as the past grief had done. Then I learned from Nisida how your mistake and neglect, oh Silerio, in making the signal of the kerchief, was the cause why she, believing that some ill had befallen me, fell into such a swoon and faint, that all believed her to be dead, as I thought, and you, Silerio, believed. She also told me how, after coming to herself, she learned the truth of my victory together with my sudden and hasty departure, and your absence, the news of which brought her to the verge of making true that of her death; but as it did not bring her to the last extreme, it caused her and her sister, by the artifice of a nurse of theirs who came with them, to dress themselves in the attire of pilgrims, and in disguise to go away from their parents one night when they were approaching Gaeta on the return they were making to Naples. And it was at the time when the ship on which I had embarked, having been repaired after the storm which had passed, was on the point of departing; and telling the captain they wished to cross over to Spain to go to Santiago of Galicia, they agreed with him and embarked with the intention of coming to seek me at Xeres, where they thought to find me or to learn some news of me; and all the time they had been in the ship, which would be four days, they had not left a cabin which the captain had given them in the stern, until, hearing me sing the verses I have repeated to you, and recognising me by the voice, and by what I said in them, they came out at the moment I have told you, when, celebrating with joyous tears the happiness of having found one another, we were looking at one another, without knowing with what words to increase our new and unexpected joy, which would have grown the greater, and would have reached the point and pass it has now reached, if we had then known any news of you, friend Silerio. But, as there is no pleasure which comes so perfect as wholly to satisfy the heart, in that we then felt, there was wanting to us, not only yourpresence, but even news of it. The brightness of the night, the cool and pleasing wind (which favouring and gentle at that moment began to strike the sails), the calm sea and the cloudless sky, it seems, all together, and each by itself, helped to celebrate the joy of our hearts. But fickle fortune, from whose disposition one can make sure of no stability, envious of our happiness, chose to disturb it by the greatest mishap that could have been imagined, had not time and favouring circumstances turned it to a better issue. It happened then that at the time the wind began to freshen, the busy sailors hoisted all the sails higher and assured themselves of a safe and prosperous voyage to the general joy of all. One of them, who was seated on one side of the bow, discovered by the brightness of the moon's low rays, that four rowing vessels with long-drawn-out stroke were approaching the ship with great speed and haste, and at the moment he knew that they were an enemy's, and with loud cries began to shout: "To arms, to arms, for Turkish vessels are in sight!" This cry and sudden alarm caused such panic in all the crew of the ship, that, without being able to take thought for the approaching danger, they looked at one another; but its captain (who had sometimes seen himself in similar circumstances), coming to the bow, sought to learn how large the vessels were and how many, and he discovered two more than the sailor, and recognised that they were galliots with slave crews, whereat he must needs have felt no small fear. But, dissembling as best he could, he straightway ordered the guns to be prepared and the sails to be trimmed as much as possible to meet the opposing vessels so as to see if he could go between them and let the guns play on every side. Straightway all rushed to arms, and, dispersed at their posts, as well as could be, awaited the coming of the enemy. Who will be able to express to you, sirs, the pain I felt at this moment, seeing my happiness disturbed with such quickness, and myself so near the chance of losing it, and the more when I saw Nisida and Blanca looking at each other without speaking a word, confused by the uproar and shouting there was in the ship, and seeing myself asking them to shut themselves up in their cabin and pray to God to deliver us from the enemy's hands? This was a situation which makes the imagination faint when the memory recalls it; their open tears, and the violence I did myself so as not to show mine, held me in such a way that I had almost forgotten what I ought to do, who I was, and what the danger required. But at last I made them withdraw almost fainting to their cabin, and shutting them in from outside, hastened to see what the captain was ordering. He with prudent care was providing everything necessary for the emergency, and entrusting to Darinto, the gentleman who left us to-day, the guard of the forecastle, and handing overto me the poop, he with some sailors and passengers hurried through all the waist of the ship from one part to another. The enemy did not delay much in approaching, and the wind delayed rather less in growing calm, which was the complete cause of our ruin. The enemy did not dare to board, for, seeing that the weather was growing calm, it seemed to them better to wait for the day in order to attack us. They did so, and, when the day came, though we had already counted them, we saw finally that it was fifteen big vessels that had surrounded us, and then the fear of being lost was at once confirmed in our breasts. Nevertheless, the valiant captain, not losing heart—nor did any of those who were with him,—waited to see what the enemy would do. They, as soon as morning came, lowered a boat from their flagship, and sent by a renegade to tell our captain to surrender, since he saw he could not defend himself against so many vessels, and the more so that they were all the best in Algiers, threatening him on behalf of Arnaut Mami, his general, that if the ship discharged a single piece, he would hang him from a yard-arm when he caught him, and the renegade, adding to these other threats, urged him to surrender. But the captain, not wishing to do so, told the renegade in reply to sheer off from the ship or he would send him to the bottom with the guns. Arnaut heard this reply, and straightway priming the guns of his ship everywhere, began to play them from a distance with such speed, fury, and din, that it was a marvel. Our ship began to do the same with such good fortune that she sent to the bottom one of the vessels that were attacking her at the stern, for she hit her with a ball close to the harpings, in such a manner that the sea swallowed her without receiving any succour. The Turks, seeing this, hurried on the fight, and in four hours attacked us four times and as many times retired with great loss on their part, and no small loss on ours. But, not to weary you by relating to you in detail the things that happened in this fight, I will only say that after we had fought sixteen hours, and after our captain and nearly all the crew of the ship had perished, at the end of nine assaults they made upon us, at the last they furiously boarded the ship. Though I should wish, yet I cannot exaggerate the grief that came to my soul when I saw that my beloved darlings whom now I have before me, must needs then be handed over to, and come into the power of those cruel butchers; and so, carried away by the wrath this fear and thought caused in me, I rushed with unarmed breast through the midst of the barbarous swords, desirous of dying from the cruelty of their edge, rather than to see with my eyes what I expected. But things came to pass differently from what I had feared, for, three stalwart Turks grappling with me, and I struggling with them, we all fell up confusedly against the door of the cabin where Nisida and Blanca were, and with theforce of the blow the door was broken open, displaying the treasure that was there enclosed. The enemy lusting after it, one of them seized Nisida and the other Blanca; and I, seeing myself free from the two made the other who held me leave his life at my feet, and I thought to do the same with the two, had they not, warned of the danger, given up their hold of the two ladies and stretched me on the floor with two great wounds. Nisida, seeing this, threw herself upon my wounded body and with lamentable cries begged the two Turks to finish her. At this moment, drawn by the cries and laments of Nisida and Blanca, Arnaut, the general of the vessels, hurried up to the cabin, and, learning from the soldiers what was going on, had Nisida and Blanca carried to his galley, and at Nisida's prayer also gave orders for them to carry me thither, since I was not yet dead. In this manner, without my being conscious, they carried me to the enemy's flagship, where I was straightway tended with some diligence, for Nisida had told the captain that I was a man of rank and of great ransom, with the intention that, tempted by the bait of covetousness and of the money they might get from me, they should look after my health with somewhat more care. It happened then, that, as my wounds were being tended, I returned to consciousness with the pain of them, and turning my eyes in every direction, I knew I was in the power of my enemies, and in the enemy's vessel; but nothing touched my soul so much as to see at the stern of the galley Nisida and Blanca sitting at the feet of the dog of a general, shedding from their eyes countless tears, the tokens of the inward grief they were suffering. Neither the fear of the shameful death I was awaiting when you, good friend Silerio, in Catalonia freed me from it; neither the false tidings of Nisida's death, believed by me as true; neither the pain of my deadly wounds, nor any other affliction I might imagine, caused me, nor will cause more anguish than that which came to me at seeing Nisida and Blanca in the power of that barbarous unbeliever, where their honour was placed in such imminent and manifest peril. The pain of this anguish worked so much upon my soul that I once again lost my senses, and took away the hope of my health and life from the surgeon who was tending me, in such a manner that believing I was dead, he stopped in the midst of his tending of me, assuring all that I had already passed from this life. When this news was heard by the two hapless sisters, let them say what they felt, if they make so bold, for I can only say that I afterwards learned that the two, rising from where they were, tearing their ruddy locks, and scratching their fair faces, without anyone being able to hold them back, came to where I lay in a faint, and there began to make so piteous a lament, that they moved to compassion the very breasts of the cruel barbarians. By reason of Nisida's tears which were falling on my face, orthrough the wounds already cold and swollen which caused me great pain, I returned again to consciousness, to be conscious of my new misfortune. I will pass in silence now the piteous and loving words that in that hapless moment passed between Nisida and myself, so as not to sadden so much the joyous moment in which we now find ourselves, nor do I wish to relate in detail the dire straits she told me she had passed through with the captain. He, overcome by her beauty, made her a thousand promises, a thousand gifts, a thousand threats, that she might come to submit to his lawless will; but showing herself towards him as scornful as modest, and as modest as scornful, she was able all that day and the following night to defend herself from the hateful importunities of the corsair. But as Nisida's continued presence went on increasing in him every moment his lustful desire, without any doubt it might have been feared, as I did fear, that by his abandoning his prayers and using violence, Nisida might lose her honour or life, the latter being the likelier to be expected from her virtue. But fortune, being now weary of having placed us in the lowest stage of misery, chose to show us that what is published abroad of her instability is true, by a means which brought us to the pass of praying Heaven to keep us in that hapless lot, instead of losing our lives on the swollen billows of the angry sea: which after two days that we were captives, and at the time we were taking the direct course to Barbary, moved by a furious sirocco, began to rise mountains high, and to lash the pirate fleet with such fury, that the wearied oarsmen, without being able to avail themselves of the oars, bridled them and had recourse to the wonted remedy of the foresail on the mast, and of letting themselves run wherever the wind and sea listed. And the tempest increased in such a manner that in less than half an hour it scattered and dispersed the vessels in different directions, without any of them being able to give heed to following their captain, but rather in a little while, all being separated as I have said, our vessel came to be left alone, and to be the one that danger threatened most; for she began to make so much water through her seams, that however much they bailed her in all the cabins at the stern, bow, and mizzen, the water in the bilge all the time reached the knee. And to all this misfortune was added the approach of night, which in such cases, more than in any others, increases dread fear; and it came with such darkness and renewed tempestuousness, that we all wholly despaired of help. Seek not to learn more, sirs, save that the very Turks begged the Christians, who were captives at the oar, to invoke and call on their saints and their Christ, to deliver them from such misfortune, and the prayers of the wretched Christians who were there were not so much in vain that high Heaven moved by them let the wind grow calm, nay rather it increased it with suchforce and fury, that at break of day, which could only be told by the hours of the sand-glass by which they are measured, the ill-steered vessel found herself off the coast of Catalonia, so near land, and so unable to get away from it, that it was necessary to hoist the sail a little higher, in order that she might drive with more force upon a wide beach which offered itself to us in front; for the love of life made the slavery the Turks expected appear sweet to them. Scarcely had the galley driven ashore, when straightway there hurried down to the beach a number of people armed, whose dress and speech showed them to be Catalans, and the coast to be Catalonia, and even the very spot where at the risk of yours, friend Silerio, you saved my life. Who could exaggerate now the joy of the Christians, who saw their necks free and relieved from the unbearable and heavy yoke of bitter captivity; and the prayers and entreaties the Turks, free a little while before, made to their own slaves, begging them to see that they were not ill-treated by the angry Christians, who were already awaiting them on the beach, with the desire of avenging the wrong these very Turks had done them, in sacking their town, as you, Silerio, know? And the fear they had did not turn out vain for them, for the people of the place, entering the galley which lay stranded on the sand, wrought such cruel havoc on the corsairs that very few were left with life; and had it not been that the greedy desire of sacking the galley blinded them, all the Turks had been killed in this first onslaught. Finally the Turks who remained, and we captive Christians who came there, were all plundered; and if the clothes I wore had not been stained with blood, I believe they would not have left me even them. Darinto who was also there, helped straightway to look after Nisida and Blanca, and to see that I might be taken ashore to be tended there. When I came out and recognised the place where I was, and considered the danger in which I had seen myself there, it did not fail to give me some anxiety, caused by the fear of being known and punished for what I ought not to be; and so I begged Darinto to arrange for us to go to Barcelona without making any delay, telling him the cause that moved me to it. But it was not possible, for my wounds distressed me in such a way that they forced me to be there for some days, as I was, without being visited save by a surgeon. In the meantime Darinto went to Barcelona, whence he returned, providing himself with what we needed; and, as he found me better and stronger, we straightway took the road for the city of Toledo, to learn of Nisida's kinsmen if they knew of her parents, to whom we have already written all the late events of our lives, asking forgiveness for our past errors. And all the happiness and grief from these good and evil events has been increased and diminished by your absence, Silerio. But since Heaven has now, with such great blessings, given a remedy to our calamities,there remains naught else save that you, friend Silerio, should render it fitting thanks therefor, and banish the past sadness by reason of the present joy, and endeavour to give it to one who for many days has for your sake lived without it, as you shall learn when we are more alone, and I acquaint you therewith. There remain some other things for me to tell, which have happened to me in the course of this my journey; but I must leave them for the nonce, so as not, by reason of their tediousness, to displease these shepherds, who have been the instrument of all my delight and pleasure. This, then, friend Silerio and shepherd friends, is the issue of my life. Mark if, from the life I have gone through and from that I go through now, I can call myself the most ill-starred and the happiest man of those that are living to-day.'
With these last words the joyful Timbrio ended his tale, and all those that were present rejoiced at the happy issue his toils had had, Silerio's content passing beyond all that can be said. He, turning anew to embrace Timbrio, and constrained by the desire to learn who the person was that for his sake lived without content, begged leave of the shepherds, and went apart with Timbrio on one side, where he learned from him that the fair Blanca, Nisida's sister, was the one who loved him more than herself, from the very day and moment she learned who he was and the worth of his character, and that, so as not to go against what she owed to her honour, she had never wished to reveal this thought except to her sister, by whose agency she hoped to have honoured him in the fulfilment of her desires. Timbrio likewise told him how the gentleman Darinto, who came with him and of whom he had made mention in his late discourse, knowing who Blanca was, and carried away by her beauty, had fallen in love with her so earnestly that he asked her from her sister Nisida as his wife, and she undeceived him saying that Blanca would by no means consent; and that Darinto being angry thereat, believing that they rejected him for his little worth, Nisida, in order to free him from this suspicion, had to tell him how Blanca had her thoughts busied with Silerio; but that Darinto had not turned faint-hearted on this account, nor abandoned his purpose—'for as he knew that no news was known of you, Silerio, he fancied that the services he thought to render to Blanca, and the lapse of time, would make her desist from her first intention. And with this motive he would never leave us, until hearing yesterday from the shepherds sure tidings of your life, knowing the happiness that Blanca had felt thereat, and considering it to be impossible that Darinto could gain what he desired when Silerio appeared, he went away from all, without taking leave of anyone, with tokens of the greatest grief.'
Together with this Timbrio counselled his friend to be content that Blanca was to have him, choosing her and acceptingher as wife, since he already knew her and was not ignorant of her worth and modesty; and he dwelt on the joy and pleasure they both would have seeing themselves wedded to two such sisters. Silerio asked him in reply to give him time to think about this action, though he knew that in the end it was impossible not to do what he bade him. At this moment the white dawn was already beginning to give tokens of its new approach, and the stars were gradually hiding their brightness; and at this point there came to the ears of all the voice of the love-sick Lauso, who, as his friend Damon had known that they must needs spend that night in Silerio's hermitage, wished to be with him, and with the other shepherds. And as it was all his pleasure and pastime to sing to the sound of his rebeck the prosperous or adverse issue of his love, carried away by his mood, and invited by the solitude of the road and by the delicious harmony of the birds, who were already beginning to greet the coming day with their sweet concerted song, he came singing in a low voice verses such as these: