Chapter 26

LENIO.

Unknown, ungrateful Love, that dost appalAt times the gallant hearts of all our race,And with vain shapes and shades fantasticalIn the free soul dost countless fetters place,If, proud of godhead, thou thyself dost callBy such a lofty name, spurn in disgraceHim, who, surrendered to the marriage tie,To a new noose would yield his fantasy.Strive thou that pure and spotless evermoreThe law of holy wedlock may remain,Turn thou thy mind thereto with all thy power,Unfurl thy banner on this fair champaign,See what sweet fruit he hopes, what lovely flower,For little toil, who doth himself constrainTo bear this yoke, as duty bids and right;For, though a burden, 'tis a burden light.Thou canst, if thou no more rememberestThy misdeeds and thy peevish character,Make glad the marriage bed, the happy nest,Wherein the nuptial yoke unites the pair;Set thyself in their soul, and in their breastUntil their life have ended its career,Then may they go (and to this hope we cling)To enjoy the pleasures of the eternal spring.Do thou the shepherd's tiny cot pass by,To do his duty leave the shepherd free,Fly higher yet, since thou so high dost fly,Seek for a better pastime, nobler be:To make of souls a sacrifice on highThou toilest and dost watch;—'tis vanity,If thou dost bring them not with better mindTo the sweet union Hymen hath designed.The mighty hand of thy amazing mightThou canst herein to all the world display,Making the tender bride in love delight,And by her bridegroom be beloved alway;The infernal jealous madness that doth blightTheir peace and comfort, thou canst drive away;Suffer not scornful harsh disdain to keepFar from their eyelids sweet refreshing sleep.But if the prayers of him who was thy friendHave never, traitorous Love, been heard by thee,To these of mine thou wilt no hearing lend,For I thy foe am, and shall ever be;Thy character, thy works of evil end,Whereof is witness all humanity,Lead me to expect not from thy hand a wealthOf peace or fortune, happiness or health.

Unknown, ungrateful Love, that dost appal

At times the gallant hearts of all our race,

And with vain shapes and shades fantastical

In the free soul dost countless fetters place,

If, proud of godhead, thou thyself dost call

By such a lofty name, spurn in disgrace

Him, who, surrendered to the marriage tie,

To a new noose would yield his fantasy.

Strive thou that pure and spotless evermoreThe law of holy wedlock may remain,Turn thou thy mind thereto with all thy power,Unfurl thy banner on this fair champaign,See what sweet fruit he hopes, what lovely flower,For little toil, who doth himself constrainTo bear this yoke, as duty bids and right;For, though a burden, 'tis a burden light.

Strive thou that pure and spotless evermore

The law of holy wedlock may remain,

Turn thou thy mind thereto with all thy power,

Unfurl thy banner on this fair champaign,

See what sweet fruit he hopes, what lovely flower,

For little toil, who doth himself constrain

To bear this yoke, as duty bids and right;

For, though a burden, 'tis a burden light.

Thou canst, if thou no more rememberestThy misdeeds and thy peevish character,Make glad the marriage bed, the happy nest,Wherein the nuptial yoke unites the pair;Set thyself in their soul, and in their breastUntil their life have ended its career,Then may they go (and to this hope we cling)To enjoy the pleasures of the eternal spring.

Thou canst, if thou no more rememberest

Thy misdeeds and thy peevish character,

Make glad the marriage bed, the happy nest,

Wherein the nuptial yoke unites the pair;

Set thyself in their soul, and in their breast

Until their life have ended its career,

Then may they go (and to this hope we cling)

To enjoy the pleasures of the eternal spring.

Do thou the shepherd's tiny cot pass by,To do his duty leave the shepherd free,Fly higher yet, since thou so high dost fly,Seek for a better pastime, nobler be:To make of souls a sacrifice on highThou toilest and dost watch;—'tis vanity,If thou dost bring them not with better mindTo the sweet union Hymen hath designed.

Do thou the shepherd's tiny cot pass by,

To do his duty leave the shepherd free,

Fly higher yet, since thou so high dost fly,

Seek for a better pastime, nobler be:

To make of souls a sacrifice on high

Thou toilest and dost watch;—'tis vanity,

If thou dost bring them not with better mind

To the sweet union Hymen hath designed.

The mighty hand of thy amazing mightThou canst herein to all the world display,Making the tender bride in love delight,And by her bridegroom be beloved alway;The infernal jealous madness that doth blightTheir peace and comfort, thou canst drive away;Suffer not scornful harsh disdain to keepFar from their eyelids sweet refreshing sleep.

The mighty hand of thy amazing might

Thou canst herein to all the world display,

Making the tender bride in love delight,

And by her bridegroom be beloved alway;

The infernal jealous madness that doth blight

Their peace and comfort, thou canst drive away;

Suffer not scornful harsh disdain to keep

Far from their eyelids sweet refreshing sleep.

But if the prayers of him who was thy friendHave never, traitorous Love, been heard by thee,To these of mine thou wilt no hearing lend,For I thy foe am, and shall ever be;Thy character, thy works of evil end,Whereof is witness all humanity,Lead me to expect not from thy hand a wealthOf peace or fortune, happiness or health.

But if the prayers of him who was thy friend

Have never, traitorous Love, been heard by thee,

To these of mine thou wilt no hearing lend,

For I thy foe am, and shall ever be;

Thy character, thy works of evil end,

Whereof is witness all humanity,

Lead me to expect not from thy hand a wealth

Of peace or fortune, happiness or health.

Already those who listened to the loveless Lenio as they went along were wondering at seeing with what meekness he was treating the things of Love, calling him a god, and of a mighty hand—a thing they had never heard him say. But having heard the verses with which he ended his song, they could not refrain from laughter, for it already seemed to them that he was getting angry as he went on, and that if he proceeded further in his song, he would deal with love as he was wont at other times; but time failed him, for the way was at an end. And so, when they had come to the temple, and the usual ceremonies had been performed therein by the priests, Daranio and Silveria remained bound in a tight and perpetual knot, not without the envy of many who saw them, nor without the grief of some who coveted Silveria's beauty. But every grief would have been surpassed by that which the hapless Mireno would have felt, had he been present at this spectacle. The wedded pair having returned from the temple with the same company that had escorted them, came to the village square, where they found thetables set, and where Daranio wished publicly to make a demonstration of his wealth, offering to all the people a liberal and sumptuous feast. The square was so covered with branches, that it seemed a lovely green forest, the branches interwoven above in such wise that the sun's keen rays in all that compass found no entry to warm the cool ground, which was covered with many sword-lilies and a great diversity of flowers. There, then, to the general content of all was celebrated the liberal banquet, to the sound of many pastoral instruments, which gave no less pleasure than is wont to be given by the bands playing in harmony usual in royal palaces; but that which most exalted the feast was to see, that, on removing the tables, they made with much speed in the same place a stage, because the four discreet and hapless shepherds, Orompo, Marsilio, Crisio, and Orfenio, so as to honour their friend Daranio's wedding, and to satisfy the desire Thyrsis and Damon had to hear them, wished there in public to recite an eclogue, which they themselves had composed on the occasion of their own griefs. All the shepherds and shepherdesses who were there being then arranged in their seats, after that Erastro's pipe, and Lenio's lyre and the other instruments made those present keep peaceful and marvellous silence, the first who showed himself in the humble theatre was the sad Orompo, clad in black skin-coat, and a crook of yellow box-wood in his hand, the end of which was an ugly figure of Death. He came crowned with leaves of mournful cypress, all emblems of grief which reigned in him by reason of the untimely death of his beloved Listea; and after he had, with sad look, turned his weeping eyes in all directions, with tokens of infinite grief and bitterness he broke the silence with words like these:

OROMPO.

Come from the depths of my grief-stricken breast,Oh words of blood, with death commingled come,Break open the left side that keeps you dumb,If 'tis my sighs perchance that hold you fast.The air impedes you, for 'tis fired at lastBy the fierce poison of your utterance;Come forth and let the breezes bear you hence,As they have borne my bliss adown the blast.For ye will lose but little when ye seeYourselves lost, since your lofty theme has gone,For whom in weighty style and perfect toneUtterance ye gave to things of high degree.Famed were ye once, of high renown were ye,For sweetness, and for wittiness and gladness;But now for bitterness, for tears and sadness,Will ye by Heaven and earth appraisèd be.Although ye issue trembling at my cryWith what words can ye utter what I feel,If my fierce torment is incapableOf being as 'tis painted vividly?Alas, for neither means nor time have ITo express the pain and sinking at my heart;But what my tongue doth lack to tell its smart,My eyes by constant weeping may supply.Oh death, who cuttest short by cruel guileA thousand pleasant purposes of man,And in a moment turnest hill to plain,Making Henares equal unto Nile,Why didst thou temper not thy cruel style,Traitor, and why didst thou, in my despite,Make trial on a bosom fair and whiteOf thy fierce hanger's edge with fury vile?How came it that the green and tender yearsOf that fair lamb did, false one, thee displease?Wherefore didst thou my woes by hers increase?Why didst thou show thyself to her so fierce?Enemy mine, friend of deceitful cares,Goest thou from me who seek thee, and concealestThyself from me, while thou thyself revealestTo him who more than I thy evils fears?On riper years thy law tyrannicalMight well its giant vigour have displayed,Nor dealt its cruel blow against a maid,Who hath of living had enjoyment small;But yet thy sickle which arrangeth all—By no prayer turned aside nor word of power—Moweth with ruthless blade the tender flowerE'en as the knotty reed, stalwart and tall.When thou Listea from the world awayDidst take, thy nature and thy strength, thy worth,Thy spirit, wrath and lordship to the earthThou didst by that proud deed alone display.All that the earth possesseth fair and gay,Graceful and witty, thou didst likewise doom,When thou didst doom Listea; in her tombThou didst with her this wealth of blisses lay.My painful life grows longer, and its weightI can no more upon my shoulders bear,For without her I am in darkness drear;His life is death who is not fortunate.I have no hope in fortune nor in fate,I have no hope in time, no hope in Heaven;I may not hope for solace to be given,Nor yet for good where evil is so great.Oh ye who feel what sorrow is, come, findIn mine your consolation, when ye seeIts strength, its vigour and alacrity;Then ye will see how far yours falls behind.Where are ye now, shepherds graceful and kind,Crisio, Marsilio, and Orfenio? WhatDo ye? Why come ye not? Why count ye notMine greater far than troubles of your mind?But who is this who cometh into sight,Emerging at the crossing of yon path?Marsilio 'tis, whom Love as prisoner hath,The cause Belisa, her praise his delight.The fierce snake of disdain with cruel biteHis soul doth ever gnaw and eke his breast,He spends his life in torment without rest,And yet not his but mine the blacker plight.He thinks the ill that makes his soul complainIs greater than the sorrow of my woe.Within this thicket 'twill be well to go,That I may see if he perchance complain.Alas! to think to match it with the painThat never leaves me is but vanity.The road mine opens that to ill draws nigh,Closing the pathway that doth bliss attain.

For ye will lose but little when ye seeYourselves lost, since your lofty theme has gone,For whom in weighty style and perfect toneUtterance ye gave to things of high degree.Famed were ye once, of high renown were ye,For sweetness, and for wittiness and gladness;But now for bitterness, for tears and sadness,Will ye by Heaven and earth appraisèd be.

Although ye issue trembling at my cryWith what words can ye utter what I feel,If my fierce torment is incapableOf being as 'tis painted vividly?Alas, for neither means nor time have ITo express the pain and sinking at my heart;But what my tongue doth lack to tell its smart,My eyes by constant weeping may supply.

Oh death, who cuttest short by cruel guileA thousand pleasant purposes of man,And in a moment turnest hill to plain,Making Henares equal unto Nile,Why didst thou temper not thy cruel style,Traitor, and why didst thou, in my despite,Make trial on a bosom fair and whiteOf thy fierce hanger's edge with fury vile?

How came it that the green and tender yearsOf that fair lamb did, false one, thee displease?Wherefore didst thou my woes by hers increase?Why didst thou show thyself to her so fierce?Enemy mine, friend of deceitful cares,Goest thou from me who seek thee, and concealestThyself from me, while thou thyself revealestTo him who more than I thy evils fears?

On riper years thy law tyrannicalMight well its giant vigour have displayed,Nor dealt its cruel blow against a maid,Who hath of living had enjoyment small;But yet thy sickle which arrangeth all—By no prayer turned aside nor word of power—Moweth with ruthless blade the tender flowerE'en as the knotty reed, stalwart and tall.

When thou Listea from the world awayDidst take, thy nature and thy strength, thy worth,Thy spirit, wrath and lordship to the earthThou didst by that proud deed alone display.All that the earth possesseth fair and gay,Graceful and witty, thou didst likewise doom,When thou didst doom Listea; in her tombThou didst with her this wealth of blisses lay.

My painful life grows longer, and its weightI can no more upon my shoulders bear,For without her I am in darkness drear;His life is death who is not fortunate.I have no hope in fortune nor in fate,I have no hope in time, no hope in Heaven;I may not hope for solace to be given,Nor yet for good where evil is so great.

Oh ye who feel what sorrow is, come, findIn mine your consolation, when ye seeIts strength, its vigour and alacrity;Then ye will see how far yours falls behind.Where are ye now, shepherds graceful and kind,Crisio, Marsilio, and Orfenio? WhatDo ye? Why come ye not? Why count ye notMine greater far than troubles of your mind?

But who is this who cometh into sight,Emerging at the crossing of yon path?Marsilio 'tis, whom Love as prisoner hath,The cause Belisa, her praise his delight.The fierce snake of disdain with cruel biteHis soul doth ever gnaw and eke his breast,He spends his life in torment without rest,And yet not his but mine the blacker plight.

He thinks the ill that makes his soul complainIs greater than the sorrow of my woe.Within this thicket 'twill be well to go,That I may see if he perchance complain.Alas! to think to match it with the painThat never leaves me is but vanity.The road mine opens that to ill draws nigh,Closing the pathway that doth bliss attain.

MARSILIO.

Oh steps that by steps bringMe to death's agoniesI am constrained to blame your tardiness!Unto the sweet lot cling,For in your swiftness liesMy bliss, and in such hour of bitterness.Behold, me to distress,The hardness of my foeWithin her angry breast,Hostile unto my rest,Doth ever do what it was wont to do,And therefore let us flee,If but we can, from her dread cruelty.To what clime shall I go,Or to what land unknownTo make my dwelling there, that I may beSafe from tormenting woe,From sad and certain moan,Which shall not end till it hath ended me?Whether I stay or fleeTo Libya's sandy plainsOr to the dwelling-placeOf Scythia's savage race,One thing alone doth mitigate my pain;That a contented mindI do not in a change of dwelling find.It wins me everywhere,The rigorous disdainOf her that hath no peer, my cruel foe,And yet an issue fair'Tis not for me to gainFrom Love or hope amidst such cruel woe.Belisa, daylight's glow,Thou glory of our age,If prayers of a friendHave power thy will to bend,Temper of thy right hand the ruthless rage!The fire my breast doth hold,May it have power in thine to melt the cold.Yet deaf unto my cry,Ruthless and merciless,As to the wearied mariner's appealThe tempest raging byThat stirs the angry sea,Threatening to life the doom unspeakable,Adamant, marble, steel,And rugged Alpine brow,The sturdy holm-oak old,The oak that to the coldNorth wind its lofty crest doth never bow,All gentle are and kindCompared unto the wrath in thee we find.My hard and bitter fate,My unrelenting star,My will that bears it all and suffereth,This doom did promulgate,Thankless Belisa fair,That I should serve and love thee e'en in deathThough thy brow threatenethWith ruthless, angry frown,And though thine eyes so clearA thousand woes declare,Yet mistress of this soul I shall thee crown,Until a mortal veilOf flesh no more on earth my soul conceal.Can there be good that viesWith my tormenting ill,Can any earthly ill such anguish give?For each of them doth riseFar beyond human skill,And without her in living death I live,In disdain I reviveMy faith, and there 'tis foundBurnt with the chilly cold.What vanity behold,The unwonted sorrow that my soul doth wound!Can it be equal, see,Unto the ill that fain would greater be?But who is he who stirsThe interwoven boughsOf this round-crested myrtle, thick and green?

To what clime shall I go,Or to what land unknownTo make my dwelling there, that I may beSafe from tormenting woe,From sad and certain moan,Which shall not end till it hath ended me?Whether I stay or fleeTo Libya's sandy plainsOr to the dwelling-placeOf Scythia's savage race,One thing alone doth mitigate my pain;That a contented mindI do not in a change of dwelling find.

It wins me everywhere,The rigorous disdainOf her that hath no peer, my cruel foe,And yet an issue fair'Tis not for me to gainFrom Love or hope amidst such cruel woe.Belisa, daylight's glow,Thou glory of our age,If prayers of a friendHave power thy will to bend,Temper of thy right hand the ruthless rage!The fire my breast doth hold,May it have power in thine to melt the cold.

Yet deaf unto my cry,Ruthless and merciless,As to the wearied mariner's appealThe tempest raging byThat stirs the angry sea,Threatening to life the doom unspeakable,Adamant, marble, steel,And rugged Alpine brow,The sturdy holm-oak old,The oak that to the coldNorth wind its lofty crest doth never bow,All gentle are and kindCompared unto the wrath in thee we find.

My hard and bitter fate,My unrelenting star,My will that bears it all and suffereth,This doom did promulgate,Thankless Belisa fair,That I should serve and love thee e'en in deathThough thy brow threatenethWith ruthless, angry frown,And though thine eyes so clearA thousand woes declare,Yet mistress of this soul I shall thee crown,Until a mortal veilOf flesh no more on earth my soul conceal.

Can there be good that viesWith my tormenting ill,Can any earthly ill such anguish give?For each of them doth riseFar beyond human skill,And without her in living death I live,In disdain I reviveMy faith, and there 'tis foundBurnt with the chilly cold.What vanity behold,The unwonted sorrow that my soul doth wound!Can it be equal, see,Unto the ill that fain would greater be?

But who is he who stirsThe interwoven boughsOf this round-crested myrtle, thick and green?

OROMPO.

A shepherd who avers,Reasoning from his woes,Founding his words upon the truth therein,That it must needs be seenHis sorrow doth surpassThe sorrow thou dost feel,The higher thou mayst raise it,Exalt it, and appraise it.

MARS.

Conquered wilt thou remain in such a deal,Orompo, friend so true.And thou thyself shalt witness be thereto.If of my agonies,If of my maddening ill,The very smallest part thou didst but know,Thy vanities would cease,For thou wouldst see that stillMy sufferings all are true, and thine but show.

OROMPO.

Deem thy mysterious woeA phantom of the mind,Than mine, that doth distressMy life, reckon thine less,For I will save thee from thine error blind,And the dear truth reveal,That thy ill is a shadow, mine is real.But, lo! the voice I hearOf Crisio, sounding plain.A shepherd he, whose views with thine agree,To him let us give ear,For his distressful painMaketh him swell with pride, as thine doth thee.

MARS.

To-day time offers mePlace and occasion whereI can display to bothAnd prove to you the truthThat only I misfortune know and care.

OROMPO.

Marsilio, now attendUnto the voice and sad theme of thy friend.

CRISIO.

Ah! hard oppressive absence, sad and drear,How far must he have been from knowing thee,Who did thy force and violence compareTo death's invincible supremacy!For when death doth pronounce his doom severe,What then can he do more, so weak is he,That to undo the knot and stoutest tetherThat holdeth soul and body firm together?Thy cruel sword to greater ill extends,Since into two one spirit it doth part.Love's miracles, which no man understands,Nor are attained by learning or by art.Oh let my soul with one who understands,There leave its half, and bring the weaker partHither, whereby more ill I on me lay,Than if from life I were far, far away!Away am I from yonder eyes so fair,Which calmed my torment in my hour of need,Eyes, life of him who could behold them clear,If they the fancy did not further lead;For to behold and think of merit thereIs but a foolish, daring, reckless deed,I see them not, I saw them to my wrong,And now I perish, for to see I long.Longing have I, and rightly, to behold—The term of my distress to abbreviate—This friendship rent in twain which hath of oldUnited soul to flesh with love so great,That from the frame set free which doth it hold,With ready speed and wondrous flight elate,It will be able to behold againThose eyes, relief and glory to its pain.Pain is the payment and the recompenseThat Love doth to the absent lover give;Herein is summed all suffering and offence,That in Love's sufferings we do perceive;Neither to use discretion for defence,Nor in the fire of loyal love to liveWith thoughts exalted, doth avail to assuageThis torment's cruel pain and violent rage.Raging and violent is this cruel distress,And yet withal so long doth it endure,That, ere it endeth, endeth steadfastness,And even life's career, wretched and poor;Death, jealousy, disdain, and fickleness,An unkind, angry heart, do not assureSuch torment, nor inflict wounds so severe,As doth this ill, whose very name is fear.Fearful it were, did not a grief, so fierceAs this, produce in me such mortal grief;And yet it is not mortal, since my yearsEnd not, though I am absent from my life;But I'll no more my woeful song rehearse,For to such swains, in charm and wisdom chief,As those I see before me, 'twill be rightThat I should show to see them more delight.

Thy cruel sword to greater ill extends,Since into two one spirit it doth part.Love's miracles, which no man understands,Nor are attained by learning or by art.Oh let my soul with one who understands,There leave its half, and bring the weaker partHither, whereby more ill I on me lay,Than if from life I were far, far away!

Away am I from yonder eyes so fair,Which calmed my torment in my hour of need,Eyes, life of him who could behold them clear,If they the fancy did not further lead;For to behold and think of merit thereIs but a foolish, daring, reckless deed,I see them not, I saw them to my wrong,And now I perish, for to see I long.

Longing have I, and rightly, to behold—The term of my distress to abbreviate—This friendship rent in twain which hath of oldUnited soul to flesh with love so great,That from the frame set free which doth it hold,With ready speed and wondrous flight elate,It will be able to behold againThose eyes, relief and glory to its pain.

Pain is the payment and the recompenseThat Love doth to the absent lover give;Herein is summed all suffering and offence,That in Love's sufferings we do perceive;Neither to use discretion for defence,Nor in the fire of loyal love to liveWith thoughts exalted, doth avail to assuageThis torment's cruel pain and violent rage.

Raging and violent is this cruel distress,And yet withal so long doth it endure,That, ere it endeth, endeth steadfastness,And even life's career, wretched and poor;Death, jealousy, disdain, and fickleness,An unkind, angry heart, do not assureSuch torment, nor inflict wounds so severe,As doth this ill, whose very name is fear.

Fearful it were, did not a grief, so fierceAs this, produce in me such mortal grief;And yet it is not mortal, since my yearsEnd not, though I am absent from my life;But I'll no more my woeful song rehearse,For to such swains, in charm and wisdom chief,As those I see before me, 'twill be rightThat I should show to see them more delight.

OROMPO.

Delight thy presence gives us, Crisio friend,And more, because thou comest at an hour,When we our ancient difference may end.

CRISIO.

If it delights thee, come, let us once moreBegin, for in Marsilio of our strifeA righteous judge we have to plead before.

MARS.

Clearly ye show and prove your error rife,Wherewith ye twain are so besotted, drawnBy the vain fancy that rules o'er your life,Since ye wish that the sorrows ye bemoan,Although so small, should be to mine preferred,Bewailed enough, and yet so little known.But that it may by earth and Heaven be heard,How far your sorrows fall below the painThat hath my soul beset and hope deferred,I will the least my bosom doth contain,Put forth, with all the feeble wit I have—Methinks the victory in your strife I'll gain—And unto you I shall the verdict leave,To judge my ill whether it harrowethMore than the absence which doth Crisio grieve,Or than the dread and bitter ill of death;For each of you doth heedless make his plaint,Bitter and brief he calls the lot he hath.

Clearly ye show and prove your error rife,Wherewith ye twain are so besotted, drawnBy the vain fancy that rules o'er your life,

Since ye wish that the sorrows ye bemoan,Although so small, should be to mine preferred,Bewailed enough, and yet so little known.

But that it may by earth and Heaven be heard,How far your sorrows fall below the painThat hath my soul beset and hope deferred,

I will the least my bosom doth contain,Put forth, with all the feeble wit I have—Methinks the victory in your strife I'll gain—

And unto you I shall the verdict leave,To judge my ill whether it harrowethMore than the absence which doth Crisio grieve,

Or than the dread and bitter ill of death;For each of you doth heedless make his plaint,Bitter and brief he calls the lot he hath.

OROMPO.

Thereat I feel, Marsilio, much content,Because the reason I have on my side,Hath to my anguish hope of triumph sent.

CRISIO.

Although the skill is unto me deniedTo exaggerate, when I my grief proclaim,Ye will behold how yours are set aside.

MARS.

Unto the deathless hardness of my dameWhat absence reaches? Though so hard is she,Mistress of beauty her the world acclaim.

OROMPO.

At what a happy hour and juncture see,Orfenio comes in sight! Be ye intent,And ye will hear him weigh his misery.'Tis jealousy that doth his soul torment,A very knife is jealousy, the sureDisturber of Love's peace and Love's content.

CRISIO.

Hearken, he sings the griefs he doth endure.

ORFENIO.

Oh gloomy shadow, thou that followestMy sorrowing and confused fancy still,Thou darkness irksome, thou that, cold and chill,Hast ever my content and light oppressed.When will it be that thou thy bitterestWrath wilt assuage, cruel monster, harpy fell?What dost thou gain to make my joy a hell?What bliss, that thou my bliss dost from me wrest?But if the mood thou dost upon thee take,Leadeth thee on to seek his life to steal,Who life and being unto thee did give,Methinks I should not wonder thou dost wreakThy will upon me, and upon my weal,But that despite my woes, I yet do live.

Oh gloomy shadow, thou that followestMy sorrowing and confused fancy still,Thou darkness irksome, thou that, cold and chill,Hast ever my content and light oppressed.

When will it be that thou thy bitterestWrath wilt assuage, cruel monster, harpy fell?What dost thou gain to make my joy a hell?What bliss, that thou my bliss dost from me wrest?

But if the mood thou dost upon thee take,Leadeth thee on to seek his life to steal,Who life and being unto thee did give,

Methinks I should not wonder thou dost wreakThy will upon me, and upon my weal,But that despite my woes, I yet do live.

OROMPO.

If the delightful meadIs pleasant to thee as 'twas wont to beIn times that now are dead,Come hither; thou art freeTo spend the day in our sad company.He that is sad agreesEasily with the sad, as thou must know;Come hither, here one flees,Beside this clear spring's flow,The sun's bright rays that high in heaven glow.Come and thyself defend,As is thy custom, raise thy wonted strain,Against each sorrowing friend.For each doth strive amainTo show that his alone is truly pain.I only in the strifeMust needs opponent be to each and all,The sorrow of my lifeI can indeed extol,But cannot give expression to the whole.

If the delightful meadIs pleasant to thee as 'twas wont to beIn times that now are dead,Come hither; thou art freeTo spend the day in our sad company.

He that is sad agreesEasily with the sad, as thou must know;Come hither, here one flees,Beside this clear spring's flow,The sun's bright rays that high in heaven glow.

Come and thyself defend,As is thy custom, raise thy wonted strain,Against each sorrowing friend.For each doth strive amainTo show that his alone is truly pain.

I only in the strifeMust needs opponent be to each and all,The sorrow of my lifeI can indeed extol,But cannot give expression to the whole.

ORFENIO.

The luscious grassy swardIs not unto the hungry lamb so sweet,Nor health once more restoredDoth he so gladly greetWho had already held its loss complete,As pleasant 'tis for meIn the contest that is at hand to showThat the cruel miseryMy suffering heart doth knowIs far above the greatest here below.Orompo, speak no wordOf thy great ill, Crisio, thy grief contain,Let naught from thee be heard,Marsilio; death, disdain,Absence, seek not to rival jealous pain.But if Heaven so desiresThat we to-day should seek the battle-field,Begin, whoso aspires,And of his sorrow yieldToken with all the skill his tongue can wield.A truthful historyIn the pure truth doth find its resting-place.For it can never be,That elegance and graceOf speech can form its substance and its base.

The luscious grassy swardIs not unto the hungry lamb so sweet,Nor health once more restoredDoth he so gladly greetWho had already held its loss complete,

As pleasant 'tis for meIn the contest that is at hand to showThat the cruel miseryMy suffering heart doth knowIs far above the greatest here below.

Orompo, speak no wordOf thy great ill, Crisio, thy grief contain,Let naught from thee be heard,Marsilio; death, disdain,Absence, seek not to rival jealous pain.

But if Heaven so desiresThat we to-day should seek the battle-field,Begin, whoso aspires,And of his sorrow yieldToken with all the skill his tongue can wield.

A truthful historyIn the pure truth doth find its resting-place.For it can never be,That elegance and graceOf speech can form its substance and its base.

CRISIO.

Shepherd, in this great arrogance I feelThou wilt reveal the folly of thy lifeWhen in this strife of passions we engage.

ORFENIO.

Thy pride assuage or show it in its hour,Thine anguish sore is but a pastime, friend,The souls that bend in grief, because they goAway, their woe must needs exaggerate.

CRISIO.

So strange and great the torment is I moan,That thou full soon thyself, I trust, wilt sayThat nothing may with my fatigues compare.

MARS.

An evil star shone on me from my birth.

OROMPO.

Ere yet on earth I came, methinks e'en thenMisfortune, pain, and misery, were mine.

ORFENIO.

In me divine the greatest of ill-fortune.

CRISIO.

Thy ill is fortune, when to mine compared.

MARS.

When it is paired with my mysterious ill,The wound that kills you is but glory plain.

OROMPO.

This tangled skein will soon be very clear,When bright and clear my grief it doth reveal.Let none conceal the pain his breast within,For I the tale of mine do now begin.In good ground my hopes were sown,Goodly fruit they promised then,But when their desire was known,And their willingness was shown,Heaven changed their fruit to pain.I beheld their wondrous flower,Eager happiness to showerOn me—thousand proofs it gave—Death that envious did it cravePlucked it in that very hour.Like the labourer was I,Who doth toil without reliefAnd with lingering energy,Winning from his destinyBut the bitter fruit of grief:Destiny doth take awayAll hope of a better day,For the Heaven that to him bringsConfidence of better thingsIt beneath the earth did lay.If to this pass I attain,That e'en now I live, despairingWhether I shall glory gain.Since I suffer beyond bearing,'Tis a certain truth and plain:That amidst the darkest gloomHope assures that there shall comeYet a happier, brighter dawn.Woe for him, whose hope is gone,Buried in the hopeless tomb.

This tangled skein will soon be very clear,When bright and clear my grief it doth reveal.Let none conceal the pain his breast within,For I the tale of mine do now begin.

In good ground my hopes were sown,Goodly fruit they promised then,But when their desire was known,And their willingness was shown,Heaven changed their fruit to pain.I beheld their wondrous flower,Eager happiness to showerOn me—thousand proofs it gave—Death that envious did it cravePlucked it in that very hour.

Like the labourer was I,Who doth toil without reliefAnd with lingering energy,Winning from his destinyBut the bitter fruit of grief:Destiny doth take awayAll hope of a better day,For the Heaven that to him bringsConfidence of better thingsIt beneath the earth did lay.

If to this pass I attain,That e'en now I live, despairingWhether I shall glory gain.Since I suffer beyond bearing,'Tis a certain truth and plain:That amidst the darkest gloomHope assures that there shall comeYet a happier, brighter dawn.Woe for him, whose hope is gone,Buried in the hopeless tomb.

MARS.

From mine eyes the tear-drops fallOn a spot where many a thorn,Many a bramble, hath been bornTo my hurt, for, once and all,They my loving heart have torn:I am luckless, yes, 'tis I,Though my cheeks were never dryFor a moment in my grief,Yet nor fruit, nor flower, nor leaf,Have I won, howe'er I try.For my bosom would be stilled,If I might a token seeOf some gain, small though it be;Though it never were fulfilled,I should win felicity:For the worth I should beholdOf my fond persistence boldOver her who doth so scorn,That she at my chill doth burn,At my fire is chilly cold.But if all the toil is vainOf my mourning and my sigh,And I still cease not my cry,With my more than human painWhat on earth can hope to vie?Dead the cause is of thy grief,This, Orompo, brings relief,And thy sorrow doth suppress;But when my grief most doth pressOn me, 'tis beyond belief.

For my bosom would be stilled,If I might a token seeOf some gain, small though it be;Though it never were fulfilled,I should win felicity:For the worth I should beholdOf my fond persistence boldOver her who doth so scorn,That she at my chill doth burn,At my fire is chilly cold.

But if all the toil is vainOf my mourning and my sigh,And I still cease not my cry,With my more than human painWhat on earth can hope to vie?Dead the cause is of thy grief,This, Orompo, brings relief,And thy sorrow doth suppress;But when my grief most doth pressOn me, 'tis beyond belief.

CRISIO.

Once the fruit that was the dowerOf my ceaseless adorationI held in its ripest hour;Ere I tasted it, occasionCame and snatched it from my power:I above the rest the nameOf unfortunate can claim,Since to suffering I shall come,For no longer lies my doomWhere I left my soul aflame.When death robs us of our bliss,We for ever from it part,And we find relief in this.Time can soften e'en the heartHard and firm against Love's cries.But in absence we the painOf death, jealousy, disdain,Feel with ne'er a glimpse of gladness,—Strange it is—hence fear and sadnessWith the absent one remain.When the hope at hand is near,And the accomplishment delays,Harder is the pain we bear,And affliction reacheth whereHope doth never lift its gaze;In the lesser pangs ye feel'Tis the remedy of your illNot to hope for remedy,But this solace faileth me,For the pangs of absence kill.

When death robs us of our bliss,We for ever from it part,And we find relief in this.Time can soften e'en the heartHard and firm against Love's cries.But in absence we the painOf death, jealousy, disdain,Feel with ne'er a glimpse of gladness,—Strange it is—hence fear and sadnessWith the absent one remain.

When the hope at hand is near,And the accomplishment delays,Harder is the pain we bear,And affliction reacheth whereHope doth never lift its gaze;In the lesser pangs ye feel'Tis the remedy of your illNot to hope for remedy,But this solace faileth me,For the pangs of absence kill.

ORFENIO.

Lo, the fruit that had been sownBy my toil that had no end,When to sweetness it had grown,Was by destiny my friendGiven to me for my own.Scarce to this unheard of passCould I come, when I, alas!Came the bitter truth to know,That I should but grief and woeFrom that happiness amass.In my hand the fruit I hold,And to hold it wearies me,For amidst my woes untoldIn the largest ear I seeA worm gnawing, fierce and bold;I abhor what I adore,And that which doth life restoreBrings death; for myself I shapeWinding mazes, whence escapeIs denied for evermore.In my loss for death I sigh,For 'tis life unto my woe.In the truth I find a lie,Greater doth the evil growWhether I be far or nigh;No hope is there that is sureSuch an ill as this to cure;Whether I remain or go,Of this living death the woeI must evermore endure.

In my hand the fruit I hold,And to hold it wearies me,For amidst my woes untoldIn the largest ear I seeA worm gnawing, fierce and bold;I abhor what I adore,And that which doth life restoreBrings death; for myself I shapeWinding mazes, whence escapeIs denied for evermore.

In my loss for death I sigh,For 'tis life unto my woe.In the truth I find a lie,Greater doth the evil growWhether I be far or nigh;No hope is there that is sureSuch an ill as this to cure;Whether I remain or go,Of this living death the woeI must evermore endure.

OROMPO.

'Tis sure an error clearTo argue that the loss which death hath sentSince it extends so far,Doth bring in part content,Because it takes awayThe hope that fosters grief and makes it stay.If of the glory deadThe memory that doth disturb our peaceForever shall have fled,The sorrow doth decrease,Which at its loss we feel,Since we can hope no more to keep it still.But if the memory stays,The memory of the bliss already fledDoth live the more and blazeThan when possessed indeed;Who doubteth that this painDoth more than others untold miseries gain?

'Tis sure an error clearTo argue that the loss which death hath sentSince it extends so far,Doth bring in part content,Because it takes awayThe hope that fosters grief and makes it stay.

If of the glory deadThe memory that doth disturb our peaceForever shall have fled,The sorrow doth decrease,Which at its loss we feel,Since we can hope no more to keep it still.

But if the memory stays,The memory of the bliss already fledDoth live the more and blazeThan when possessed indeed;Who doubteth that this painDoth more than others untold miseries gain?

MARS.

If it should be the chanceOf a poor traveller by some unknown wayTo find at his advanceFleeing at close of dayThe inn of his desire,The inn for which he doth in vain aspire,Doubtless he will remainDazed by the fear the dark and silent nightInspires, and yet againHapless will be his plight,If dawn comes not, for HeavenTo him hath not its gladdening radiance given.The traveller am I,I journey on to reach a happy inn;Whene'er I think that nighI come to enter in,Then, like a fleeting shadow,Bliss flees away, and grief doth overshadow.

If it should be the chanceOf a poor traveller by some unknown wayTo find at his advanceFleeing at close of dayThe inn of his desire,The inn for which he doth in vain aspire,

Doubtless he will remainDazed by the fear the dark and silent nightInspires, and yet againHapless will be his plight,If dawn comes not, for HeavenTo him hath not its gladdening radiance given.

The traveller am I,I journey on to reach a happy inn;Whene'er I think that nighI come to enter in,Then, like a fleeting shadow,Bliss flees away, and grief doth overshadow.

CRISIO.

E'en as the torrent deepIs wont the traveller's weary steps to hold,And doth the traveller keep'Midst wind and snow and cold,And, just a little spaceBeyond, the inn appears before his face,E'en so my happinessIs by this painful tedious absence stayed;To comfort my distress'Tis ever sore afraid,And yet before mine eyesI see the healer of my miseries.And thus to see so nearThe cure of my distress afflicts me sore,And makes it greater far,Because my bliss beforeMy hand doth further fleeFor some strange cause, the nearer 'tis to me.

E'en as the torrent deepIs wont the traveller's weary steps to hold,And doth the traveller keep'Midst wind and snow and cold,And, just a little spaceBeyond, the inn appears before his face,

E'en so my happinessIs by this painful tedious absence stayed;To comfort my distress'Tis ever sore afraid,And yet before mine eyesI see the healer of my miseries.

And thus to see so nearThe cure of my distress afflicts me sore,And makes it greater far,Because my bliss beforeMy hand doth further fleeFor some strange cause, the nearer 'tis to me.

ORFENIO.

I saw before mine eyesA noble inn, that did in bliss abound,I triumphed in my prize,Too soon, alas, I foundThat vile it had become,Changed by my fate to darkness and to gloom.There, where we ever seeThe bliss of those who love each other well,There is my misery;There where is wont to dwellAll bliss, is evil plain,United in alliance with disdain.In this abode I lie—And never do I strive to issue hence—Built by my agony,And with so strange a fence,Methinks they to the groundBring it, who love, see, and resist its wound.

I saw before mine eyesA noble inn, that did in bliss abound,I triumphed in my prize,Too soon, alas, I foundThat vile it had become,Changed by my fate to darkness and to gloom.

There, where we ever seeThe bliss of those who love each other well,There is my misery;There where is wont to dwellAll bliss, is evil plain,United in alliance with disdain.

In this abode I lie—And never do I strive to issue hence—Built by my agony,And with so strange a fence,Methinks they to the groundBring it, who love, see, and resist its wound.

OROMPO.

Sooner the path that is his own, the sunShall end, whereon he wanders through the skyAfter he hath through all the Zodiac run,Than we the least part of our agonyAccording to our pain can well declare,However much we raise our speech on high.He who lives absent dies, says Crisio there,But I, that I am dead, since to the reignOf death fate handed o'er my life's career.And boldly thou, Marsilio, dost maintainThat thou of joy and bliss hast lost all chance,Since that which slayeth thee is fierce disdain.Unto this thought thou givest utterance,Orfenio, that 'tis through thy soul doth pass,Not through thy breast alone, the jealous lance.As each the woes through which his fellows passFeels not, he praiseth but the grief he knows,Thinking it doth his fellows' pangs surpass.Wherefore his bank rich Tagus overflows,Swollen by our strife of tears and mournfulness,Wherein with piteous words we moan our woes.Our pain doth not thereby become the less,Rather because we handle so the wound,It doth condemn us to the more distress.We must our plaints renew with all the soundOur tongues can utter, and with all the thoughtThat can within our intellects be found.Then let us cease our disputation, taughtThat every ill doth anguish bring and pain,Nor is there good with sure contentment fraught.Sufficient ill he hath that doth constrainHis life within the confines of a tomb,And doth in bitter loneliness remain,Unhappy he—and mournful is his doom—Who suffereth the pangs of jealousy,In whom nor strength nor judgment findeth room,And he, who spends his days in misery,By the cruel power of absence long oppressed,Patience his only staff, weak though it be;Nor doth the eager lover suffer leastWho feels, when most he burns, his lady's power,By her hard heart and coldness sore distressed.

Sooner the path that is his own, the sunShall end, whereon he wanders through the skyAfter he hath through all the Zodiac run,

Than we the least part of our agonyAccording to our pain can well declare,However much we raise our speech on high.

He who lives absent dies, says Crisio there,But I, that I am dead, since to the reignOf death fate handed o'er my life's career.

And boldly thou, Marsilio, dost maintainThat thou of joy and bliss hast lost all chance,Since that which slayeth thee is fierce disdain.

Unto this thought thou givest utterance,Orfenio, that 'tis through thy soul doth pass,Not through thy breast alone, the jealous lance.

As each the woes through which his fellows passFeels not, he praiseth but the grief he knows,Thinking it doth his fellows' pangs surpass.

Wherefore his bank rich Tagus overflows,Swollen by our strife of tears and mournfulness,Wherein with piteous words we moan our woes.

Our pain doth not thereby become the less,Rather because we handle so the wound,It doth condemn us to the more distress.

We must our plaints renew with all the soundOur tongues can utter, and with all the thoughtThat can within our intellects be found.

Then let us cease our disputation, taughtThat every ill doth anguish bring and pain,Nor is there good with sure contentment fraught.

Sufficient ill he hath that doth constrainHis life within the confines of a tomb,And doth in bitter loneliness remain,

Unhappy he—and mournful is his doom—Who suffereth the pangs of jealousy,In whom nor strength nor judgment findeth room,

And he, who spends his days in misery,By the cruel power of absence long oppressed,Patience his only staff, weak though it be;

Nor doth the eager lover suffer leastWho feels, when most he burns, his lady's power,By her hard heart and coldness sore distressed.

CRISIO.

His bidding let us do, for lo, the hourE'en now with rapid flight comes on apace,When we our herds must needs collect once more.And while unto the wonted sheltering-placeWe go, and whilst the radiant sun to restSinketh and from the meadow hides his face,With bitter voice and mourning manifest,Making the while harmonious melody,Sing we the grief that hath our souls oppressed.

His bidding let us do, for lo, the hourE'en now with rapid flight comes on apace,When we our herds must needs collect once more.

And while unto the wonted sheltering-placeWe go, and whilst the radiant sun to restSinketh and from the meadow hides his face,

With bitter voice and mourning manifest,Making the while harmonious melody,Sing we the grief that hath our souls oppressed.

MARS.

Begin then, Crisio, may thine accents flyWith speed unto Claraura's ears once more,Borne gently by the winds that hasten by,As unto one who doth their grief restore.

CRISIO.

Whoso from the grievous cupOf dread absence comes to drink,Hath no ill from which to shrink,Nor yet good for which to hope.In this bitter miseryEvery evil is contained:Fear lest we should be disdained,Of our rivals' jealousy.Whoso shall with absence cope,Straightway will he come to thinkThat from no ill can he shrink,Nor for any good can hope.

Whoso from the grievous cupOf dread absence comes to drink,Hath no ill from which to shrink,Nor yet good for which to hope.

In this bitter miseryEvery evil is contained:Fear lest we should be disdained,Of our rivals' jealousy.

Whoso shall with absence cope,Straightway will he come to thinkThat from no ill can he shrink,Nor for any good can hope.

OROMPO.

True 'tis ill that makes me sighMore than any death I know,Since life findeth cause of woeIn that death doth pass it by.For when death did take awayAll my glory and content,That it might the more torment,It allowed my life to stay.Evil comes, and hastilyWith such swiftness good doth go,That life findeth cause of woeIn that death doth pass it by.

True 'tis ill that makes me sighMore than any death I know,Since life findeth cause of woeIn that death doth pass it by.

For when death did take awayAll my glory and content,That it might the more torment,It allowed my life to stay.

Evil comes, and hastilyWith such swiftness good doth go,That life findeth cause of woeIn that death doth pass it by.

MARS.

In my dread and grievous woeNow are wanting to my eyesTears, and breath unto my sighs,Should my troubles greater grow,For ingratitude, disdain,Hold me in their toils so fastThat from death I hope at lastLonger life and greater gain.Little can it linger now,Since are wanting to my eyesTears, and breath unto my sighs,Should my troubles greater grow.

In my dread and grievous woeNow are wanting to my eyesTears, and breath unto my sighs,Should my troubles greater grow,

For ingratitude, disdain,Hold me in their toils so fastThat from death I hope at lastLonger life and greater gain.

Little can it linger now,Since are wanting to my eyesTears, and breath unto my sighs,Should my troubles greater grow.

ORFENIO.

If it could, my joy should beTruly all things else above:If but jealousy were love,And if love were jealousy.From this transformation ISo much bliss and pride should gainThat of love I would attainTo the palm and victory.If 'twere so, then jealousyWould so much my champion prove,That, if jealousy were love,Nothing I save love should be.

If it could, my joy should beTruly all things else above:If but jealousy were love,And if love were jealousy.

From this transformation ISo much bliss and pride should gainThat of love I would attainTo the palm and victory.

If 'twere so, then jealousyWould so much my champion prove,That, if jealousy were love,Nothing I save love should be.

With this last song of the jealous Orfenio, the discreet shepherds made an end of their eclogue, leaving all who had heard them satisfied with their discretion: especially Damon and Thyrsis, who felt great pleasure at hearing them, for it seemed to them that the reasonings and arguments which the four shepherds had propounded to carry through their proposition, seemed of more than shepherd wit. But a contest having arisen between many of the bystanders as to which of the four had pleaded his cause best, at last the opinion of all came to agree with that which discreet Damon gave, saying to them that hefor his part held that, among all the distasteful and unpleasing things that love brings with it, nothing so much distresses the loving breast as the incurable plague of jealousy, and neither Orompo's loss, nor Crisio's absence, nor Marsilio's despair could be equalled to it.

'The cause is,' he said, 'that it is not in reason that things which have become impossible of attainment should be able for long to compel the will to love them, or weary the desire to attain them; for when a man has the will and desire to attain the impossible, it is clear that the more desire is excessive in him, the more he would lack understanding. And for this same reason I say that the pain Orompo suffers is but grief and pity for a lost happiness; and because he has lost it in such a way that it is not possible to recover it again, this impossibility must be the cause of his sorrow ending. For although human understanding cannot be always so united with reason as to cease feeling the loss of the happiness which cannot be recovered, and must in fact give tokens of its feeling by tender tears, ardent sighs, and piteous words, under pain, should one not do this, of being counted rather brute than rational man—in a word, the course of time cures this sorrowing, reason softens it, and new events have a great share in blotting it from memory. All this is the contrary in absence, as Crisio well pointed out in his verses, for, as in the absent one, hope is so united to desire, the postponement of return gives him terrible distress; seeing that, as nothing hinders him from enjoying his happiness except some arm of the sea, or some stretch of land, it seems to him, having the chief thing, which is the good-will of the beloved person, that flagrant wrong is done to his bliss, in that things so trivial as a little water or land should hinder his happiness and glory. To this pain are also joined the fear of being forgotten, and the changes of human hearts; and so long as absence endures, strange without a doubt is the harshness and rigour with which it treats the soul of the hapless absent one. But as it has the remedy so near, which consists in return, its torment can be borne with some ease; and if it should happen that the absence should be such that it is impossible to return to the desired presence, that impossibility comes to be the remedy, as in the case of death. As for the sorrow of which Marsilio complains, though it is, as it were, the same that I suffer, and on this account must needs have seemed to me greater than any other, I will not therefore fail to say what reason shows me, rather than that to which passion urges me. I confess that it is a terrible sorrow to love and not be loved; but 'twould be a greater to love and be loathed. And if we new lovers guided ourselves by what reason and experience teach us, we would see that every beginning in anything is difficult, and that this rule suffers no exception in the affairs of love, but rather in them isconfirmed and strengthened the more; so that for the new lover to complain of the hardness of his lady's rebellious breast, goes beyond all bounds of reason. For as love is, and has to be, voluntary, and not constrained, I ought not to complain of not being loved by anyone I love, nor ought I to attach importance to the burden I impose on her, telling her that she is obliged to love me since I love her; seeing that, though the beloved person ought, in accordance with the law of nature and with fair courtesy, not to show herself ungrateful toward him who loves her well, it must not for this reason be a matter of constraint and obligation that she should respond, all in all, to her lover's desires. For if this were so, there would be a thousand importunate lovers who would gain by their solicitude what would perhaps not be due to them of right; and as love has the understanding for father, it may be that she who is well loved by me does not find in me qualities so good as to move her and incline her to love me. And so she is not obliged, as I have already said, to love me, in the same way that I shall be obliged to adore her, for I found in her what is lacking in me; and for this reason he who is disdained ought not to complain of his beloved, but of his fortune, which denied him the graces that might move his lady's understanding to love him well. And so he ought to seek, with constant services, with loving words, with not unseasonable presence, and with practised virtues, to improve and amend in himself the fault that nature caused; for this is so essential a remedy that I am ready to affirm that it will be impossible for him to fail to be loved, who, by means so fitting, shall seek to win his lady's good-will. And since this evil of disdain has with it the good of this cure, let Marsilio console himself, and pity the hapless and jealous Orfenio, in whose misfortune is enclosed the greatest that can be imagined in those of love. Oh jealousy, disturber of the tranquil peace of love! jealousy, knife of the firmest hopes! I know not what he could know of lineage who made thee child of love, since thou art so much the contrary, that, for that very reason, love would have ceased to be love, had it begotten such children. Oh jealousy, hypocrite and false thief! seeing that, in order that account may be taken of thee in the world, as soon as thou seest any spark of love born in any breast, thou seekest to mingle with it, changing thyself to its colour, and even seekest to usurp from it the lordship and dominion it has. Hence it comes that as men see thee so united with love, though by thy results thou showest that thou art not love itself, yet thou seekest to give the ignorant man to understand that thou art love's son, though in truth thou art born from a low suspicion, begotten by a vile and ill-starred fear, nurtured at the breast of false imaginings, growing up amidst vilest envies, sustained by slanders and falsehoods. And that we may see the ruin causedin loving hearts by this cursed affliction of raging jealousy, when the lover is jealous, it behoves him, with the leave of jealous lovers be it said, it behoves him, I say, to be, as he is, traitorous, cunning, truculent, slanderous, capricious, and even ill-bred; and so far extends the jealous rage that masters him, that the person he loves most is the one to whom he wishes the most ill. The jealous lover would wish that his lady were fair for him alone, and ugly for all the world; he desires that she may not have eyes to see more than he might wish, nor ears to hear, nor tongue to speak; that she may be retiring, insipid, proud and ill-mannered; and at times he even desires, oppressed by this devilish passion, that his lady should die, and that all should end. All these passions jealousy begets in the minds of jealous lovers; the opposite to the virtues which pure and simple love multiplies in true and courteous lovers, for in the breast of a good lover are enclosed discretion, valour, generosity, courtesy, and all that can make him praiseworthy in the eyes of men. At the same time the force of this cruel poison contains yet more, for there is no antidote to preserve it, counsel to avail it, friend to aid it, nor excuse to fit it; all this is contained in the jealous lover, and more—every shadow terrifies him, every trifle disturbs him, and every suspicion, false or true, undoes him. And to all this misfortune another is added, namely, the excuses that deceive him. And since there is no other medicine than excuses for the disease of jealousy, and since the jealous man suffering from it does not wish to admit them, it follows that this disease is without remedy, and should be placed before all others. And thus it is my opinion that Orfenio is the most afflicted, but not the most in love; for jealousy is not the token of much love, but of much ill-advised curiosity. And if it is a token of love, it is like fever in a sick man, for to have it is a sign of having life, but a life sick and diseased; and so the jealous lover has love, but it is love sick and ill-conditioned; and moreover to be jealous is a token of little confidence in one's own worth. And that this is true the discreet and firm lover teaches us, who, without reaching the darkness of jealousy, touches on the shadows of fear, but does not enter so far into them that they obscure the sun of his bliss; nor goes so far away from them that they relieve him from walking in solicitude and fear; for if this discreet fear should be wanting in the lover, I would count him proud and over-confident. For as a common proverb of ours says: "Who loves well, fears"; and indeed it is right that the lover should fear, lest, as the thing he loves is extremely good, or seemed to him to be so, it should seem the same to the eyes of anyone who beholds it; and for the same reason love is begotten in another who is able to disturb his love and succeeds in so doing. The good lover fears, and let him fear, the changes oftime, of the new events which might offer themselves to his hurt, and lest the happy state he is enjoying may quickly end; and this fear must be so secret, that it does not come to his tongue to utter it, nor yet to his eyes to express it. And this fear produces effects so contrary to those which jealousy produces in loving breasts, that it fosters in them new desires to increase love more if they could, to strive with all solicitude that the eyes of their beloved should not see in them aught that is not worthy of praise, showing themselves generous, courteous, gallant, pure and well-bred; and as much as it is right that this virtuous fear should be praised, so much, and even more, is it fitting that jealousy should be blamed.'

The renowned Damon said this and was silent, and drew in the wake of his own opinion the opposite ones of some who had been listening to him, leaving all satisfied with the truth he had shown them with such plainness. But he would not have remained without reply, had the shepherds Orompo, Crisio, Marsilio, and Orfenio been present at his discourse; who, wearied by the eclogue they had recited, had gone to the house of their friend Daranio. All being thus occupied, at the moment the various dances were about to be renewed, they saw three comely shepherds entering on one side of the square, who were straightway recognised by all. They were the graceful Francenio, the frank Lauso, and the old Arsindo, who came between the two shepherds with a lovely garland of green laurel in his hands; and crossing through the square, they came to a stop where Thyrsis, Damon, Elicio, and Erastro, and all the chief shepherds were, whom they greeted with courteous words, and were received by them with no less courtesy, especially Lauso by Damon, whose old and true friend he was. Compliments having ceased, Arsindo, setting eyes on Damon and Thyrsis, began to speak in this wise:

'It is the renown of your wisdom, which extends near and far, discreet and gallant shepherds, that brings these shepherds and myself to beg you to consent to be judges of a graceful contest that has arisen between these two shepherds; and it is that, the feast being over, Francenio and Lauso, who are here, found themselves in a company of fair shepherdesses, and in order to pass without tedium the leisure hours of the day amongst them, they set on foot, amongst many other games, the one which is called 'themes.' It happened then that, the turn to propose and begin coming to one of these shepherds, fate would have it that the shepherdess at his side and on his right hand was, as he says, the treasurer of his soul's secrets, and the one who was, in the opinion of all, accounted the most discreet and most in love. Approaching then her ear, he said to her:

"Hope doth fly and will not stay."

The shepherdess, without being at a loss, went on, and, each one afterwards repeating in public what he had said to the other in secret, it was found that the shepherdess had capped the theme by saying:

"With desire to check its flight."

The acuteness of this reply was praised by those who were present; but the one to extol it most was the shepherd Lauso, and it seemed no less good to Francenio, and so each one, seeing that the theme and the reply were verses of the same measure, offered to gloss them. After having done so, each one claims that his gloss excels the other's, and to have certainty in this, they wished to make me judge of it, but, as I knew that your presence was gladdening our banks, I counselled them to come to you, to whose consuminate learning and wisdom questions of greater import might well be trusted. They have followed my opinion, and I have gladly taken the trouble to make this garland that it may be given as a prize to him whom you, shepherds, decide to have glossed the better.'

Arsindo was silent and awaited the shepherds' reply, which was to thank him for the good opinion he had of them and to offer themselves to be impartial judges in that honourable contest. With this assurance straightway Francenio once more repeated the verses and recited his gloss, which was as follows:

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