No fear have I before the frost and fire,The bow and arrows of the tyrant Love,And so I needs must sing in his dispraise;For who shall fear a blind boy whose desireVaries, whose judgment doth inconstant rove,Although he threaten wounds and sad decays?My pleasure doth increase, his worth decays,When I employ my tongueTo utter the true songWhich in reproach of Love himself I form,So rich in truth, in manner, and in form,That unto all Love's malice it reveals,And clearly doth informThe world of the sure hurt that Love conceals.Love is a fire that burns the soul within,A frost that freezes; dart that opes the breast,Which heedeth not its cunning manifold;A troubled sea where calm hath ne'er been seen;Wrath's minister; enemy manifest,In guise of friend; father of dismay cold;Giver of scanty good and ill untold;Caressing; full of lies;Fierce in his tyrannies;A traitorous Circe that transforms us allTo divers monstrous shapes fantasticalWherefrom no power of man can us restore,Though quickly at our callComes reason's light, to what we were before,A yoke that doth the proudest neck abase;A mark to which desires of slothful ease,Born without reason, go as to their goal;A treacherous net, which men of highest placeAmidst their foul and unclean sins doth seizeAnd doth within its subtle mesh enthrall;A pleasing ill that tempts the senses all;Poison in guise of pill,Gilded, but poison still;A bolt that burns and cleaves where it descendeth;An angry arm that traitorously offendeth;Headsman that dooms the thought which captive lies,Or which itself defendethFrom the sweet charm of his false fantasies;A hurt that doth in the beginning please,When on an object which doth seem as fairAs the fair heavens above, the sight doth feast—And yet the more it looks with yearning gaze,The more the heart doth suffer everywhere,The heart that is with anguish sore distressed—Dumb speaker; chatterer with dumbness oppressed;A wise man babbling folly;Ruin that slayeth wholly;The life which joyous harmony doth fill;Shadow of good that is transformed to ill;A flight that raiseth us to Heaven on high,Only that grief may stillLive after we have fallen, and pleasure die;A thief unseen that doth destroy us quite,And robs us of our wealth with ruthless hand,Carrying our souls away at every hour;A speed that overtakes the quickest flight;A riddle none there is to understand;A life that always is in peril sore;A chosen, and, withal, a chance-born war;A truce that is but brief;Beloved, luckless grief;Promise that never doth to fruitage come;Illness that makes within the soul its home;Coward that upon evil rusheth bold;Debtor that doth the sumHe owes, which is our due, ever withhold;A labyrinth wherein is nestling foundA fierce wild beast that doth itself sustainOn the surrendered hearts of all mankind;A bond wherewith the lives of all are bound;A lord that from his steward seeks to gainAccount of deed and word, and of his mind;Greed, unto countless varied aims inclined;A worm that builds a house,Wretched or beauteous,Where for a little while it dwells and dies;A sigh that never knows for what it sighs;A cloud that darkens all our faculties;A knife that wounds us—thisIs Love, him follow, if ye think it wise.'
No fear have I before the frost and fire,The bow and arrows of the tyrant Love,And so I needs must sing in his dispraise;For who shall fear a blind boy whose desireVaries, whose judgment doth inconstant rove,Although he threaten wounds and sad decays?My pleasure doth increase, his worth decays,When I employ my tongueTo utter the true songWhich in reproach of Love himself I form,So rich in truth, in manner, and in form,That unto all Love's malice it reveals,And clearly doth informThe world of the sure hurt that Love conceals.Love is a fire that burns the soul within,A frost that freezes; dart that opes the breast,Which heedeth not its cunning manifold;A troubled sea where calm hath ne'er been seen;Wrath's minister; enemy manifest,In guise of friend; father of dismay cold;Giver of scanty good and ill untold;Caressing; full of lies;Fierce in his tyrannies;A traitorous Circe that transforms us allTo divers monstrous shapes fantasticalWherefrom no power of man can us restore,Though quickly at our callComes reason's light, to what we were before,A yoke that doth the proudest neck abase;A mark to which desires of slothful ease,Born without reason, go as to their goal;A treacherous net, which men of highest placeAmidst their foul and unclean sins doth seizeAnd doth within its subtle mesh enthrall;A pleasing ill that tempts the senses all;Poison in guise of pill,Gilded, but poison still;A bolt that burns and cleaves where it descendeth;An angry arm that traitorously offendeth;Headsman that dooms the thought which captive lies,Or which itself defendethFrom the sweet charm of his false fantasies;A hurt that doth in the beginning please,When on an object which doth seem as fairAs the fair heavens above, the sight doth feast—And yet the more it looks with yearning gaze,The more the heart doth suffer everywhere,The heart that is with anguish sore distressed—Dumb speaker; chatterer with dumbness oppressed;A wise man babbling folly;Ruin that slayeth wholly;The life which joyous harmony doth fill;Shadow of good that is transformed to ill;A flight that raiseth us to Heaven on high,Only that grief may stillLive after we have fallen, and pleasure die;A thief unseen that doth destroy us quite,And robs us of our wealth with ruthless hand,Carrying our souls away at every hour;A speed that overtakes the quickest flight;A riddle none there is to understand;A life that always is in peril sore;A chosen, and, withal, a chance-born war;A truce that is but brief;Beloved, luckless grief;Promise that never doth to fruitage come;Illness that makes within the soul its home;Coward that upon evil rusheth bold;Debtor that doth the sumHe owes, which is our due, ever withhold;A labyrinth wherein is nestling foundA fierce wild beast that doth itself sustainOn the surrendered hearts of all mankind;A bond wherewith the lives of all are bound;A lord that from his steward seeks to gainAccount of deed and word, and of his mind;Greed, unto countless varied aims inclined;A worm that builds a house,Wretched or beauteous,Where for a little while it dwells and dies;A sigh that never knows for what it sighs;A cloud that darkens all our faculties;A knife that wounds us—thisIs Love, him follow, if ye think it wise.'
No fear have I before the frost and fire,The bow and arrows of the tyrant Love,And so I needs must sing in his dispraise;For who shall fear a blind boy whose desireVaries, whose judgment doth inconstant rove,Although he threaten wounds and sad decays?My pleasure doth increase, his worth decays,When I employ my tongueTo utter the true songWhich in reproach of Love himself I form,So rich in truth, in manner, and in form,That unto all Love's malice it reveals,And clearly doth informThe world of the sure hurt that Love conceals.
Love is a fire that burns the soul within,A frost that freezes; dart that opes the breast,Which heedeth not its cunning manifold;A troubled sea where calm hath ne'er been seen;Wrath's minister; enemy manifest,In guise of friend; father of dismay cold;Giver of scanty good and ill untold;Caressing; full of lies;Fierce in his tyrannies;A traitorous Circe that transforms us allTo divers monstrous shapes fantasticalWherefrom no power of man can us restore,Though quickly at our callComes reason's light, to what we were before,
A yoke that doth the proudest neck abase;A mark to which desires of slothful ease,Born without reason, go as to their goal;A treacherous net, which men of highest placeAmidst their foul and unclean sins doth seizeAnd doth within its subtle mesh enthrall;A pleasing ill that tempts the senses all;Poison in guise of pill,Gilded, but poison still;A bolt that burns and cleaves where it descendeth;An angry arm that traitorously offendeth;Headsman that dooms the thought which captive lies,Or which itself defendethFrom the sweet charm of his false fantasies;
A hurt that doth in the beginning please,When on an object which doth seem as fairAs the fair heavens above, the sight doth feast—And yet the more it looks with yearning gaze,The more the heart doth suffer everywhere,The heart that is with anguish sore distressed—Dumb speaker; chatterer with dumbness oppressed;A wise man babbling folly;Ruin that slayeth wholly;The life which joyous harmony doth fill;Shadow of good that is transformed to ill;A flight that raiseth us to Heaven on high,Only that grief may stillLive after we have fallen, and pleasure die;
A thief unseen that doth destroy us quite,And robs us of our wealth with ruthless hand,Carrying our souls away at every hour;A speed that overtakes the quickest flight;A riddle none there is to understand;A life that always is in peril sore;A chosen, and, withal, a chance-born war;A truce that is but brief;Beloved, luckless grief;Promise that never doth to fruitage come;Illness that makes within the soul its home;Coward that upon evil rusheth bold;Debtor that doth the sumHe owes, which is our due, ever withhold;
A labyrinth wherein is nestling foundA fierce wild beast that doth itself sustainOn the surrendered hearts of all mankind;A bond wherewith the lives of all are bound;A lord that from his steward seeks to gainAccount of deed and word, and of his mind;Greed, unto countless varied aims inclined;A worm that builds a house,Wretched or beauteous,Where for a little while it dwells and dies;A sigh that never knows for what it sighs;A cloud that darkens all our faculties;A knife that wounds us—thisIs Love, him follow, if ye think it wise.'
With this song the loveless Lenio ended his reasoning, leaving some of those that were present full of wonder at both, especially the gentlemen, for it seemed to them that what Lenio had said seemed of more worth than was usual with a shepherd's intellect. And with great desire and attention they were awaiting Thyrsis's reply, all promising themselves in fancy that it would without any doubt excel Lenio's, for Thyrsis exceeded him in age and experience, and in the studies most generally pursued, and this likewise reassured them, for they desired that Lenio's loveless opinion should not prevail. It is indeed true that the hapless Teolinda, the loving Leonarda, the fair Rosaura, and even the lady who came with Darinto and his companion, clearly saw depicted in Lenio's discourse a thousand points of the course of their loves; and this was when he came to treat of tears and sighs, and of how dearly the joys of love were bought. Only the fair Galatea and the discreet Florisa did not count in this, for up till then love had not taken count of their fair rebellious breasts, and so they were eager only to hear the acuteness with which the two famous shepherds disputed, without seeing in their free will any of the effects of love they were hearing of. But Thyrsis's will being to reduce to better limits the loveless shepherds opinion, without waiting to be asked, the minds of the bystanders hanging on his lips, he set himself in front of Lenio, and with agreeable and elevated tone began to speak in this wise:
THYRSIS.'If the acuteness of your fair intellect, loveless shepherd, did not assure me that with ease it can attain the truth, from which it finds itself so far at present, rather than put myself to the trouble of contradicting your opinion, I would leave you in it, as a punishment for your unjust words. But because those you have uttered in blame of love show me the good germs you possess by which you may be brought to a better purpose, I do not wish by my silence to leave those who hear us scandalised, love despised, and you pertinacious and vainglorious; and so, being aided by Love on whom I call, I think in a few words to show how different are his works and effects from those you have declared about him, speaking only of the love you mean, which you defined when you said that it was a desire for beauty, and likewise declared what beauty was,and a little later you closely examined all the effects which the love of which you speak produced in loving breasts, finally strengthening your views with various unhappy events caused by love. And though the definition you made of love may be the one most generally given, yet it is not so much so but that it may be contradicted; for love and desire are two different things, since not everything that is loved is desired, nor everything that is desired loved. The reasoning is clear in the case of all things that are possessed, for then it cannot be said that they are desired, but that they are loved: thus, he who has health will not say that he desires health, but that he loves it; and he who has children cannot say that he desires children, but that he loves his children; nor yet can it be said of the things that are desired that they are loved, as of the death of enemies, which is desired and not loved. And so for this reason love and desire come to be different passions of the will. The truth is that love is the father of desire, and amongst other definitions which are given of love this is one. Love is that first change which we feel caused in our mind by the appetite which moves us and draws us to itself, delighting and pleasing us; and that pleasure begets motion in the soul, which motion is called desire, and, in short, desire is a motion of the appetite in regard to what is loved, and a wish for that which is possessed, and its object is happiness. And as there are found different species of desires, and love is a species of desire which looks to and regards the happiness which is called fair, yet for a clearer definition and division of love it must be understood that it is divided into three kinds, chaste love, useful love, and delectable love. And to these three forms of love are reduced all the kinds of loving and desiring that can exist in our will: for the chaste love regards the things of Heaven, eternal and divine; the useful, the things of earth, full of joy and doomed to perish, such as wealth, powers, and lordships; the delectable, things giving delight and pleasure, as the living corporeal beauties of which you, Lenio, spoke. And each form of these loves of which I have spoken ought not to be blamed by any tongue, for the chaste love ever was, is and must be spotless, simple, pure and divine, finding rest and repose in God alone. Profitable love, being, as it is, natural, ought not to be condemned, still less the delectable, for it is more natural than the profitable. That these two forms of love are natural in us, experience shows us, for as soon as our daring first parent transgressed the divine commandment, and from lord was made a servant, and from freeman a slave, straightway he knew the misery into which he had fallen, and the poverty in which he was. And so he at once took the leaves of trees to cover him, and sweated and toiled, breaking the earth to sustain himself, and to live with the least discomfort possible; and thereafter, obeying hisGod therein better than in aught else, he sought to have children, and in them to perpetuate and delight the human race. And as by his disobedience death entered into him, and through him into all his descendants, so we inherit at the same time all his affections and passions, as we inherit his very nature; and as he sought to remedy his necessity and poverty, so we cannot fail to seek and desire to remedy ours. And hence springs the love we have for things useful to human life; and the more we gain of them, the more it seems to us we remedy our want. And by the same reasoning we inherit the desire of perpetuating ourselves in our children; and from this desire follows that, which we have, to enjoy living corporeal beauty, as the only true means which lead such desires to a happy end. So that this delectable love, alone and without mixture of any other accident, is worthy rather of praise than of blame. And this is the love, which you, Lenio, hold for enemy; and the cause is that you do not understand it, nor know it, for you have never seen it alone, and in its own shape, but always accompanied by pernicious, lascivious and ill-placed desires. And this is not the fault of love, which is always good, but of the accidents which come to it; as we see happening in some copious stream, that has its birth from some clear and limpid spring, which is ever supplying to it clear cool waters, and a little while after it leaves its stainless mother, its sweet and crystalline waters are changed to bitter and turbid, by reason of the many stained brooks, which join it on either side. Hence this first motion, love or desire as you would call it, cannot arise except from a good beginning; and truly among good beginnings is the knowledge of beauty, which, once recognised as such, it seems well-nigh impossible to avoid loving. And beauty has such power to move our minds, that it alone caused the ancient philosophers (blind and without the light of faith to guide them), led by natural reason, and attracted by the beauty they beheld in the starry heavens, and in the mechanism and roundness of the earth, marvelling at such harmony and beauty, to pursue investigations with the understanding, making a ladder by these second causes to reach the first cause of causes; and they recognised that there was one only beginning without beginning of all things. But that which made them wonder most and raise their thoughts, was to see the frame of man so well-ordered, so perfect and so beautiful, that they came to call him a world in little; and so it is true that in all the works made by God's steward, Nature, nothing is of such excellence, nor reveals more the greatness and wisdom of its Maker. For in the form and frame of man is summed up and enclosed the beauty which is distributed in all the other parts of it; and hence it arises that this beauty, when recognised, is loved, and as all beauty displays itself most and is most resplendent in the face, as soon as a beautiful face is seen, it summons and draws the will to love it.
'Hence it follows that as the faces of women so much excel in beauty those of men, it is they who are the more loved, served and courted by us, as the object in which dwells the beauty that is naturally more pleasing to our sight. But our Maker and Creator, seeing that it is the proper nature of our soul to be for ever in perpetual motion and desire, for it cannot find rest save in God, as in its proper centre, willed, so that it might not rush with loosened rein to desire things empty and doomed to perish, and this without taking from it the liberty of free-will, to set over its three powers an alert sentinel, who should warn it against the dangers that opposed it and the enemies that persecuted it; this was reason, which corrects and curbs our inordinate desires. And seeing likewise that human beauty must needs draw after it our passions and inclinations, while it did not seem good to Him to take away from us this desire, at least He wished to temper it and correct it, ordaining the holy yoke of matrimony, beneath which most of the natural joys and pleasures of love are lawful and fitting for man and woman. By these two remedies imposed by the divine hand comes to be tempered the excess there can be in the natural love which you, Lenio, blame, which love is of itself so good that if it were lacking in us, the world and we would end. In this very love of which I am speaking are summed up all the virtues, for love is moderation, since the lover, according to the chaste wish of the beloved object, tempers his own; it is fortitude, for the lover can endure any adversity for the love of the one who loves him; it is justice, for with it he serves her who loves well, reason itself forcing him to it; it is prudence, for love is adorned with all wisdom. But I ask you, oh Lenio, you who have said that love is the cause of the ruin of empires, of the destruction of cities, of the deaths of friends, of sacrileges committed, the deviser of treasons, the transgressor of laws—I ask you, I say, to tell me, what praiseworthy thing there is to-day in the world, however good it be, the use of which cannot be changed into evil. Let philosophy be condemned, for often it discovers our faults, and many philosophers have been wicked; let the works of the heroic poets be burned, for with their satires and verses they reprehend vices; let medicine be blamed, for men discover poisons; let eloquence be called useless, for at times it has been so arrogant that it has placed in doubt the recognised truth; let not arms be forged, for robbers and murderers use them; let not houses be built, for they can fall upon the inhabitants; let variety of victuals be prohibited, for they are wont to be a cause of illness; let no one seek to have children, for Œdipus, driven by cruellest madness, slew his father, and Orestes smote the breast of his own mother; let fire be counted evil, for it is wont to burn houses and to consume cities; let water be despised, for with it all the earth was flooded; in a word, let allelements be condemned, for they can be perversely used by some perverse persons. And in this manner every good thing can be changed to evil, and from it can proceed evil effects, if placed in the hands of those who, as irrational beings, allow themselves to be governed by the appetite, without moderation. The ancient Carthage, rival of the Roman Empire, warlike Numantia, Corinth made so fair, proud Thebes, and learned Athens, and God's city Jerusalem, which were conquered and laid desolate—are we to say therefore that love was the cause of their destruction and ruin? Hence those who are accustomed to speak ill of love, ought to speak ill of their own selves, for the gifts of love, if they are used with moderation, are worthy of perpetual praise; since in everything the mean was always praised, or the extreme was blamed, for if we embrace virtue beyond what suffices, the wise man will win the name of fool, and the just of iniquitous. It was the opinion of the ancient tragedian Chremes, that, as wine mixed with water is good, so love, when moderate, is profitable, but it is the contrary when immoderate; the generation of rational animals and brutes would be naught if it did not proceed from love, and if it were wanting on earth, the latter would be deserted and empty. The ancients believed that love was the work of the gods, given for the preservation and care of mankind. But, coming to what you, Lenio, said of the sad and strange effects which love produces in loving breasts, keeping them ever in ceaseless tears, deep sighs, despairing fancies, without ever granting them an hour of repose—let us see perchance what thing can be desired in this life the attainment of which does not cost fatigue and toil; and the more valuable a thing is, the more one must suffer and does suffer for it. For desire presupposes a lack of the desired object, and until it is gained there must needs be disturbance in our mind. If then all human desires, without wholly attaining what they desire, can be rewarded and contented with a part of it being given them, and with all this it is compatible to follow them, how strange it is that to attain what cannot satisfy nor content the desire save with itself, one should suffer, weep, fear and hope? He who desires lordships, commands, honours, and riches, since he sees that he cannot reach the highest rank he would wish, when he succeeds in settling in some good position, is partly satisfied, for the hope which fails him of not being able to ascend further, makes him stop where he can, and where best he can. All this is the contrary in love, for love has no other reward nor satisfaction save love itself, and love itself is its own true reward; and for this reason it is impossible for the lover to be content till he clearly knows that he is truly loved, being assured of this by the loving tokens which they know. And so they value highly a pleasing glance, a pledge of any sort from their beloved, a trivial smile, or word,or jest they take for truth, as signs which are assuring them of the reward they desire; and so, whenever they see tokens contrary thereto, the lover is constrained to lament and grieve, without having moderation in his sorrows, since he cannot have it in his joys, when kind fortune and gentle love grant them to him. And, as it is a task of such difficulty to bring another's will to be one with mine, and to unite two souls in a knot and bond so indissoluble that the thoughts of the two may be one and all their deeds one, it is not strange that to achieve so lofty a purpose one should suffer more than for aught else, since, after it is achieved, it satisfies and gladdens beyond all things that are desired in this life. Not always are the tears of lovers shed with cause and reason, nor their sighs scattered, for if all their tears and sighs were caused by seeing that their wish is not responded to as is due, and with the reward that is sought for, it would be necessary to consider first whither they raised their fancy, and if they exalted it higher than their merit attains, it is no wonder that, like some new Icarus, they fall consumed into the river of miseries; and for these love will not incur the blame, but their folly. With all this I do not deny, but affirm that the desire of gaining what is loved, must needs cause affliction, by reason of the want it presupposes, as I have already said at other times; but I also say that to attain it gives the greatest pleasure and happiness, like rest to the weary and health to the sick. Together with this I acknowledge that if lovers marked, as in the ancient custom, with white and black stones their sad or happy days, without any doubt the unhappy would be more; but I also recognise that the quality of one white stone alone would excel the quantity of countless black ones. And for a proof of this truth we see that lovers never repent of being lovers, nay, rather, if anyone should promise them to deliver them from love's disease, they would repel him as an enemy; for even to suffer it is pleasant to them; and therefore, oh lovers, let no fear prevent you from offering and dedicating yourselves to love what should seem to you most difficult, nor complain, nor repent, if you have raised things lowly to your height, for love makes the little equal to the sublime, the lesser to the greater; and with just resolve it tempers the various dispositions of lovers, when with pure affection they receive its grace in their hearts. Yield not to dangers, that the glory may be so great as to take away the feeling of every sorrow; and, as for the captains and emperors of old, as a reward for their toils and fatigues, triumphs were prepared according to the greatness of their victories, so for lovers are reserved a multitude of pleasures and joys; and as with the former their glorious reception made them forget all their past troubles and griefs, so with the lover, when beloved by the beloved, his dreadful dreams, his uncertain sleep, his waking nights, his restless daysare turned to highest peace and happiness. Hence, Lenio, if you condemn them for their sad effects, you should acquit them for their pleasing and happy ones. And as for the interpretation you gave of Cupid's form, I am going to say that you are almost as wrong in it as in the other things you have said against love. For to picture him a boy, blind, naked, with wings and arrows, means nothing but that the lover must be a boy in not having a double character, but one pure and simple; he must be blind to every other object that might offer itself to him, save that which he has already been able to see and yield to, naked because he must have naught save what belongs to her he loves, having wings of swiftness to be ready for all that may be commanded him on her part, while he is depicted with arrows, for the wound of the loving breast must needs be deep and hidden, and that scarce may be disclosed save to the very cause that is to cure it. That love should strike with two arrows which operate in different ways, is to show us that in perfect love there must be no mean between loving and not loving at the same moment, but that the lover must love whole-heartedly without any admixture of lukewarmness. Finally, Lenio, this love it is which, if it destroyed the Trojans, made the Greeks great; if it caused the works of Carthage to cease, it caused the buildings of Rome to grow; if it took away the kingdom from Tarquin, it brought back the republic to freedom. Though I might here adduce many examples opposed to those I have adduced of thegoodeffects love causes, I do not wish to busy myself with them, since they are so well known of themselves. I only wish to ask you to be disposed to believe what I have shown and to have patience to hear a song of mine which seems as if it was composed in rivalry of yours; and if by it and by what I have said to you, you should not be willing to be brought over to love's side, and it should seem to you that you are not satisfied of the truths I have declared concerning it, if the present time permits it, or at any other you might choose and indicate, I promise you to satisfy all the replies and arguments you might wish to express in opposition to mine; and, for the present, attend to me and listen:
Come, issue from the pure and loving breast,Sonorous voice, and let thy tones of prideSing of the lofty marvels done by Love,So that the thought that freest is and best,May be content thereby and satisfied,Though 'tis but hearsay that the thought doth move.Sweet Love, that canst thy lofty marvels prove,If thou wilt, by my tongue,Grant unto it such grace,That glory, joy and praise,For telling who thou art, reward my song;For, if thou aidest me, as I surmise,Thy worth, in rapid flightTo Heaven's height, we see with mine arise.'Tis Love that is beginning of our bliss;The means whereby one winneth and attainethThe happiest end that anyone doth seek;Unequalled master of all sciences:A fire, that, though a breast ice cold remaineth,Into bright flames of virtue makes it break;A power that wounds the strong and helps the weak;A root from which is bornThe lucky plant wherebyWe rise to Heaven on high,With fruitage, that doth unto pleasure turnThe soul, of goodness, worth, and noble zeal,Of bliss without alloy,That earth with joy, and Heaven with love doth fill;Courteous and gallant, wise, discreet is he;Gay, liberal-handed, gentle, rich in might;Of piercing glance, although blind be his eyes;True guardian of respect and modesty;A captain who doth triumph in the fight,But honour only claimeth as his prize;A flower that doth 'midst thorns and brambles rise,Which life and soul adorns;An enemy of fear;Of hope a friend so near;A guest that gladdens most when he returns;An instrument of honoured wealth, I trow,Whereby one seeth thriveThe honoured ivy on the honoured brow;A natural instinct that doth move us allTo raise the thoughts within our minds so highThat scarce thereto doth human sight attain:A ladder which he that is bold doth scaleTo the sweet region of the hallowed sky;Ridge at its summit fair, smooth as a plain;An easiness that makes the intricate plain;Pole-star that in this seaOf madness guides the thoughtThat from sense strayeth not;A solace of the sorrowing fantasy;Godfather who doth never seek our harm;A beacon not concealedThat hath revealed the haven 'midst the storm;A painter that doth in our souls portray,With shadows and with tints full of repose,Now mortal, now immortal, loveliness;A sun that driveth all the clouds away;A pleasure that brings sweetness in our woes;A glass wherein one sees the kindlinessOf nature, that doth crown with high successTrue generosity;A fiery spirit bright,That even to the blindest bringeth light;Of hatred and of fear sole remedy;Argus that ne'er can tempted be to nod,Although within his earThe words he hear of some deceiving god;An army of well-armèd infantryThat countless difficulties puts to flight,And ever wins the victory and the palm;A dwelling where abideth jollity;A face that never hides the truth from sight,But shows what is within the soul; a balmWhose power the tempest changeth to sweet calm.Merely because some dayWe hope to have it sure;A comfort that doth cureHim who is scorned, when life doth pass away;Finally Love is life, 'tis glory, gladness,'Tis joyful peace and sweet;Follow his feet; to follow him is gladness.'
Come, issue from the pure and loving breast,Sonorous voice, and let thy tones of prideSing of the lofty marvels done by Love,So that the thought that freest is and best,May be content thereby and satisfied,Though 'tis but hearsay that the thought doth move.Sweet Love, that canst thy lofty marvels prove,If thou wilt, by my tongue,Grant unto it such grace,That glory, joy and praise,For telling who thou art, reward my song;For, if thou aidest me, as I surmise,Thy worth, in rapid flightTo Heaven's height, we see with mine arise.'Tis Love that is beginning of our bliss;The means whereby one winneth and attainethThe happiest end that anyone doth seek;Unequalled master of all sciences:A fire, that, though a breast ice cold remaineth,Into bright flames of virtue makes it break;A power that wounds the strong and helps the weak;A root from which is bornThe lucky plant wherebyWe rise to Heaven on high,With fruitage, that doth unto pleasure turnThe soul, of goodness, worth, and noble zeal,Of bliss without alloy,That earth with joy, and Heaven with love doth fill;Courteous and gallant, wise, discreet is he;Gay, liberal-handed, gentle, rich in might;Of piercing glance, although blind be his eyes;True guardian of respect and modesty;A captain who doth triumph in the fight,But honour only claimeth as his prize;A flower that doth 'midst thorns and brambles rise,Which life and soul adorns;An enemy of fear;Of hope a friend so near;A guest that gladdens most when he returns;An instrument of honoured wealth, I trow,Whereby one seeth thriveThe honoured ivy on the honoured brow;A natural instinct that doth move us allTo raise the thoughts within our minds so highThat scarce thereto doth human sight attain:A ladder which he that is bold doth scaleTo the sweet region of the hallowed sky;Ridge at its summit fair, smooth as a plain;An easiness that makes the intricate plain;Pole-star that in this seaOf madness guides the thoughtThat from sense strayeth not;A solace of the sorrowing fantasy;Godfather who doth never seek our harm;A beacon not concealedThat hath revealed the haven 'midst the storm;A painter that doth in our souls portray,With shadows and with tints full of repose,Now mortal, now immortal, loveliness;A sun that driveth all the clouds away;A pleasure that brings sweetness in our woes;A glass wherein one sees the kindlinessOf nature, that doth crown with high successTrue generosity;A fiery spirit bright,That even to the blindest bringeth light;Of hatred and of fear sole remedy;Argus that ne'er can tempted be to nod,Although within his earThe words he hear of some deceiving god;An army of well-armèd infantryThat countless difficulties puts to flight,And ever wins the victory and the palm;A dwelling where abideth jollity;A face that never hides the truth from sight,But shows what is within the soul; a balmWhose power the tempest changeth to sweet calm.Merely because some dayWe hope to have it sure;A comfort that doth cureHim who is scorned, when life doth pass away;Finally Love is life, 'tis glory, gladness,'Tis joyful peace and sweet;Follow his feet; to follow him is gladness.'
Come, issue from the pure and loving breast,Sonorous voice, and let thy tones of prideSing of the lofty marvels done by Love,So that the thought that freest is and best,May be content thereby and satisfied,Though 'tis but hearsay that the thought doth move.Sweet Love, that canst thy lofty marvels prove,If thou wilt, by my tongue,Grant unto it such grace,That glory, joy and praise,For telling who thou art, reward my song;For, if thou aidest me, as I surmise,Thy worth, in rapid flightTo Heaven's height, we see with mine arise.
'Tis Love that is beginning of our bliss;The means whereby one winneth and attainethThe happiest end that anyone doth seek;Unequalled master of all sciences:A fire, that, though a breast ice cold remaineth,Into bright flames of virtue makes it break;A power that wounds the strong and helps the weak;A root from which is bornThe lucky plant wherebyWe rise to Heaven on high,With fruitage, that doth unto pleasure turnThe soul, of goodness, worth, and noble zeal,Of bliss without alloy,That earth with joy, and Heaven with love doth fill;
Courteous and gallant, wise, discreet is he;Gay, liberal-handed, gentle, rich in might;Of piercing glance, although blind be his eyes;True guardian of respect and modesty;A captain who doth triumph in the fight,But honour only claimeth as his prize;A flower that doth 'midst thorns and brambles rise,Which life and soul adorns;An enemy of fear;Of hope a friend so near;A guest that gladdens most when he returns;An instrument of honoured wealth, I trow,Whereby one seeth thriveThe honoured ivy on the honoured brow;
A natural instinct that doth move us allTo raise the thoughts within our minds so highThat scarce thereto doth human sight attain:A ladder which he that is bold doth scaleTo the sweet region of the hallowed sky;Ridge at its summit fair, smooth as a plain;An easiness that makes the intricate plain;Pole-star that in this seaOf madness guides the thoughtThat from sense strayeth not;A solace of the sorrowing fantasy;Godfather who doth never seek our harm;A beacon not concealedThat hath revealed the haven 'midst the storm;
A painter that doth in our souls portray,With shadows and with tints full of repose,Now mortal, now immortal, loveliness;A sun that driveth all the clouds away;A pleasure that brings sweetness in our woes;A glass wherein one sees the kindlinessOf nature, that doth crown with high successTrue generosity;A fiery spirit bright,That even to the blindest bringeth light;Of hatred and of fear sole remedy;Argus that ne'er can tempted be to nod,Although within his earThe words he hear of some deceiving god;
An army of well-armèd infantryThat countless difficulties puts to flight,And ever wins the victory and the palm;A dwelling where abideth jollity;A face that never hides the truth from sight,But shows what is within the soul; a balmWhose power the tempest changeth to sweet calm.Merely because some dayWe hope to have it sure;A comfort that doth cureHim who is scorned, when life doth pass away;Finally Love is life, 'tis glory, gladness,'Tis joyful peace and sweet;Follow his feet; to follow him is gladness.'
The end of the reasoning and song of Thyrsis was the beginning to confirm anew in all the reputation he had for discretion, save in the loveless Lenio, to whom his reply did not seem so good as to satisfy his understanding, and change him from his first purpose. This was clearly seen, for he was already giving signs of wishing to answer and reply to Thyrsis, had not the praises Darinto and his companion, and all the shepherds and shepherdesses present were giving the two, prevented it; for Darinto's friend, taking his hand, said:
'I have just at this moment learnt how the power and wisdom of love extends over every part of the earth; and that the place where it is most refined and purified is in shepherds' breasts, as has been shown to us by what we have heard from the loveless Lenio and the discreet Thyrsis, whose reasonings and arguments savour more of intellects nurtured amidst books and lecture-rooms, than of those that have grown up amidst thatched huts. But I would not be so astonished thereat, if I were of the opinion of him who said that the knowledge of our souls was to remember what they already knew, presupposing that they are all born instructed. But when I see that I ought to follow the other and better view of him who affirmed that our soul was asit were a blank canvas, which had nothing painted on it, I cannot fail to wonder at seeing how it has been possible, in the company of sheep, in the solitude of the fields, for one to be able to acquire sciences, concerning which it is scarcely possible to hold disputes in renowned universities; if, indeed, I do not wish to be persuaded of what I said at first, that love extends through all, and communicates itself to all, raising the fallen, giving wisdom to the simple, and making perfect the wise.'
'If you knew, sir,' replied Elicio at this moment, 'how the upbringing of the renowned Thyrsis has not been amidst trees and forests, as you fancy, but in royal courts and well-known schools, you would not wonder at what he has said, but at what he has left unsaid; and although the loveless Lenio in his humility has confessed that the rusticity of his life can promise but slight pledges of intellect, nevertheless I assure you that he spent the choicest years of his life, not in the pursuit of tending goats on the hills, but on the banks of the clear Tormes in laudable studies and discreet converse. So that if the colloquy the two have held seems to you of more worth than one of shepherds, consider them as they were, and not as they now are; all the more so that you will find shepherds on these banks of ours, who will not cause you less wonder if you hear them, than those you have heard now. For on them are grazing their flocks the famous and well-known Franio, Siralvo, Filardo, Silvano, Lisardo and the two Matuntos, father and son, excelling beyond all excellence, one on the lyre, the other in poetry; and, to crown all, turn your eyes and know the well-known Damon, whom you have before you, where your desire can rest if it wishes to know the extreme of discretion and wisdom.'
The gentleman was about to reply to Elicio, when one of those ladies who came with him said to the other:
'It seems to me, señora Nisida, that since the sun is now setting it would be well for us to go, if we are to reach to-morrow the spot where they say our father is.'
The lady had scarcely said this, when Darinto and his companion looked at her, showing that it had grieved them that she had called the other by her name. But when Elicio heard the name of Nisida, the thought struck him whether it was that Nisida of whom the hermit Silerio had related so many things, and the same idea came to Thyrsis, Damon and Erastro. And Elicio, to assure himself of what he suspected, said:
'A few days ago, señor Darinto, I and some of us who are here heard the name of Nisida mentioned, as has been done by that lady now, but accompanied by more tears and referred to with more alarm.'
'Is there perchance,' replied Darinto, 'any shepherdess on these banks of yours called Nisida?'
'No,' replied Elicio; 'but she whom I speak of was born onthem, and was nurtured on the remote banks of the famous Sebeto.'
'What is it you say, shepherd?' rejoined the other gentleman.
'What you hear,' replied Elicio, 'and what you will hear at greater length, if you assure me of a suspicion I have.'
'Tell it me,' said the gentleman, 'for it might be that I shall satisfy you therein.'
To this Elicio replied: 'Is your own name, sir, perchance Timbrio?'
'I cannot deny that truth to you,' replied the other, 'for I am called Timbrio, which name I had fain concealed till another more fitting season; but the wish I have to know why you suspected that I was so called, constrains me to conceal naught from you of what you might wish to know of me.'
'Accordingly you will not deny to me either,' said Elicio, 'that this lady you have with you is called Nisida, and further, so far as I can guess, the other is called Blanca, and is her sister.'
'In all you have hit the mark,' replied Timbrio; 'but since I have denied to you nothing of what you have asked me, do not you deny me the reason that has moved you to ask it me.'
'It is as good, and will be as much to your taste,' replied Elicio, 'as you will see before many hours.'
All those who did not know what the hermit Silerio had said to Elicio, Thyrsis, Damon and Erastro, were confounded, hearing what was passing between Timbrio and Elicio. But at this moment Damon said, turning to Elicio:
'Do not keep back, oh Elicio, the good tidings you can give to Timbrio.'
'And I, too,' said Erastro, 'shall not delay a moment in going to give to the hapless Silerio those of the finding of Timbrio.'
'Holy Heavens! O, what is it I hear!' said Timbrio; 'and what is it you say, shepherd? Is that Silerio you have named perchance he who is my true friend, he who is the half of my life, he whom I desire to see more than aught else that desire could ask of me? Free me from this doubt at once, so may your flocks increase and multiply, in such a manner that all the neighbouring herdsmen may bear you envy.'
'Do not distress yourself so much, Timbrio,' said Damon, 'for the Silerio that Erastro speaks of is the same that you speak of, and the one who desires more to know of your life than to sustain and lengthen his own; for after you departed from Naples, as he has told us, he has felt your absence so much, that the pain of it, with that which other losses he related to us caused him, has brought him to the pass that, in a small hermitage, a little less than a league distant from here, he leads the straitest life imaginable, with the determination of awaiting death there, since he could not be satisfied by learning how yourlife had prospered. This we know for sure, Thyrsis, Elicio, Erastro, and I; for he himself has told us of the friendship he had with you, with all the story of the events that happened to both, until fortune by such strange accidents parted you, to set him apart to live in a solitude so strange, that it will cause you wonder when you see him.'
'May I see him, and may straightway come the last end of my days,' said Timbrio; 'and so I pray you, famous shepherds, by that courtesy which dwells in your breasts, to satisfy this breast of mine, by telling me where is that hermitage where Silerio is living.'
'Where he is dying, you had better say,' said Erastro, 'but henceforward he will live with the news of your coming; and since you so much desire his pleasure and yours, arise and let us go, for before the sun sets I will set you with Silerio; but it must be on condition that on the way you tell us all that has happened to you since you departed from Naples, for with all the rest up to that point some of those present are acquainted.'
'Small payment you ask of me,' replied Timbrio, 'for so great a thing as you offer me; for I do not say that I will tell you this, but all that you might wish to learn of me and more.' And, turning to the ladies who came with him, he said to them: 'Since with so good a cause, dear lady Nisida, the motive we had not to utter our own names has been destroyed, with the joy that the good news they have given us demands, I ask you that we should not delay, but that we should go forthwith to see Silerio, to whom you and I owe our lives and the happiness we possess.'
'It is needless, señor Timbrio,' replied Nisida, 'for you to ask me to do a thing I desire so much, and the doing of which suits me so well; let us go, and may good luck attend us, for now every moment that I delay in seeing him, will be to me an age.'
The same said the other lady, who was her sister Blanca, the same that Silerio had spoken of, and the one who gave the greatest signs of happiness. Darinto alone, at the news of Silerio, assumed such an attitude that he did not move his lips, but with a strange silence arose, and bade a servant of his bring him the horse on which he had come there; without taking leave of any one, he mounted it, and turning the reins went away from all at a gallop. When Timbrio saw this, he mounted another horse and with much haste followed Darinto until he overtook him; and seizing hold of the horse's reins, he made him stand still, and remained there talking with him a good while, at the end of which Timbrio returned to where the shepherds were, and Darinto pursued his journey, sending to excuse himself by Timbrio for having departed without taking leave of them. In the meantime Galatea, Rosaura, Teolinda, Leonarda, and Florisa went up to the fair Nisida and Blanca; and the discreet Nisida told them in a few words of the great friendship therewas between Timbrio and Silerio, with a great part of the events they had passed through. But with Timbrio's return all wished to set themselves on the road for Silerio's hermitage, had not at the same moment a fair young shepherdess, some fifteen years of age, come to the spring, with her wallet on her shoulder and her crook in her hand. And when she saw so pleasing a company, she said to them with tears in her eyes:
'If perchance there is among you, gentlemen, one who has any knowledge of the strange effects and accidents of love, and whose breast tears and loving sights are wont to make tender, let him who feels this hasten to see if it is possible to heal and check the most loving tears and deep sighs that ever issued from love-sick eyes and breasts; hasten then, shepherds, to do what I ask you and you will see how when you observe what I show you I prove my words true.'
And in saying this she turned her back, and all who were there followed her. The shepherdess, seeing then that they followed her, with hasty step entered in among some trees which were on one side of the spring; and she had not gone far, when turning to those who were coming after her, she said to them:
'You see there, sirs, the cause of my tears, for that shepherd who appears there is a brother of mine, who for the sake of that shepherdess before whom he is bent on his knees, without any doubt will leave his life in the hands of her cruelty.'
All turned their eyes to the spot the shepherdess indicated, and saw that at the foot of a green willow a shepherdess was leaning, dressed like a huntress nymph, with a rich quiver hanging at her side, and a curved bow in her hands, her beauteous ruddy locks bound together with a green garland. The shepherd was before her on his knees, with a rope cast round his throat and an unsheathed knife in his right hand, and with his left he had seized the shepherdess by a white scarf, which she wore over her dress. The shepherdess showed a frown on her face, and that she was displeased that the shepherd should detain her there by force; but when she saw that they were looking at her, with great earnestness she sought to free herself from the hand of the hapless shepherd, who with abundance of tender tears and loving words was begging her at least to give him opportunity that he might be able to indicate to her the pain he suffered for her; but the scornful and angry shepherdess went away from him at the very moment all the shepherds came so near that they heard the love-sick youth addressing the shepherdess in such wise:
'Oh ungrateful and heedless Gelasia, with how just a title you have won the name you have of cruel! Turn your eyes, hard-hearted one, to behold him who, from beholding you, is in the extremest grief imaginable. Why do you flee from him who follows you? Why do you not welcome him who serves you?And why do you loathe him who adores you? You, who are without reason my foe, hard as a lofty cliff, angry as a wounded snake, deaf as a dumb forest, scornful as boorish, boorish as fierce, fierce as a tiger, a tiger that feeds on my entrails! Will it be possible for my tears not to soften you, for my sighs not to rouse your pity, for my services not to move you? Yes, it will be possible; since my brief and ill-starred lot wishes it, and yet it will also be possible for you not to wish to tighten this noose I have at my throat, nor to plunge this knife through this heart that adores you. Turn, shepherdess, turn, and end the tragedy of my wretched life, since with such ease you can make fast this rope at my throat, or make bloody this knife in my breast.'
These and other like words the hapless shepherd uttered, accompanied by sobs and tears so many that they moved to compassion as many as heard him. But the cruel and loveless shepherdess did not therefore cease to pursue her way, without wishing even to turn her eyes to behold the shepherd, who, for her sake, was in such a state; whereat all those who perceived her angry disdain were not a little astonished, and it was so great that even the loveless Lenio thought ill of the shepherdess's cruelty. And so he with the old Arsindo went up to ask her to be so good as to turn and hear the plaints of the love-sick youth, even though she should have no intention of healing them. But it was not possible to change her from her purpose, rather she asked them not to count her discourteous in not doing what they bade her; for her intention was to be the mortal enemy of love and of all lovers, for many reasons which moved her to it, and one of them was that from her childhood she had dedicated herself to follow the pursuit of the chaste Diana, adding to these so many reasons for not doing the bidding of the shepherds that Arsindo held it for good to leave her and return. The loveless Lenio did not do this, and when he saw that the shepherdess was such an enemy of love as she seemed, and that she agreed so completely with his loveless disposition, he determined to know who she was, and to follow her company for some days; and so he told her how he was the greatest enemy love and lovers had, begging her that since they agreed so much in their opinions, she would be so kind as not to be wearied with his company which would not be hers longer than she pleased. The shepherdess rejoiced to learn Lenio's intention, and permitted him to come with her to her village, which was two leagues from Lenio's. Therewith Lenio took leave of Arsindo, begging him to excuse him to all his friends and to tell them the reason that had moved him to go with the shepherdess, and without waiting further, he and Gelasia went away quickly and in a short while disappeared. When Arsindo returned to tell what had passed with the shepherdess, he found that all the shepherds had gone up to console the love-sick shepherd, and that, as for the two of the three veiled shepherdesses, one had fainted in the fair Galatea's lap, and the other was in the embrace of the beauteous Rosaura, who likewise had her face covered. She who was with Galatea was Teolinda, and the other her sister Leonarda, whose hearts, as soon as they saw the despairing shepherd whom they found with Gelasia, were overwhelmed with a jealous and love-sick faintness, for Leonarda believed the shepherd was her beloved Galercio, and Teolinda counted it truth that he was her enamoured Artidoro; and when the two saw him so subdued and undone by the cruel Gelasia, they felt such grief in soul that all senseless they fell fainting, one into Galatea's lap, the other into Rosaura's arms. But a little while after Leonarda, coming to herself, said to Rosaura:
'Alas, my lady, I verily believe that fortune has occupied all the passes of my cure, since Galercio's will is so far from being mine, as can be seen by the words that shepherd has spoken to the loveless Gelasia; for I would have you know, lady, that that is he who has stolen my freedom, nay he who is to end my days.'
Rosaura was astonished at what Leonarda was saying; and was more so when, Teolinda also having come to herself, she and Galatea called her, and, all joining Florisa and Leonarda, Teolinda said that that shepherd was her longed-for Artidoro; but scarcely had she named him, when her sister replied to her that she was deceived, for it was none but his brother Galercio:
'Ah, traitorous Leonarda,' replied Teolinda, 'does it not suffice you that you have once parted me from my bliss, without wishing, now that I find it, to say that it is yours? Then undeceive yourself, for in this I do not deem you a sister, but an open foe.'
'Without doubt you deceive yourself, sister,' replied Leonarda, 'and I do not wonder, for into this same error all the people of our village fell, believing that this shepherd was Artidoro, until they clearly came to understand that it was none but his brother Galercio, for they resemble each other as much as we do; and indeed, if there can be greater likeness, they have a greater likeness.'
'I will not believe it,' replied Teolinda, 'for, though we are so much alike, these miracles are not so easily found in nature; and so I would have you know that so long as experience does not make me more certain of the truth than your words make me, I do not think of ceasing to believe that that shepherd I see there, is Artidoro; and if anything could make me doubt it, it is that I do not think that from the disposition and constancy I have known in Artidoro, it can be hoped or feared that he has made a change so soon and forgets me.'
'Calm yourselves, shepherdesses,' then said Rosaura, 'for I will free you soon from that doubt in which you are.'
And leaving them she went to where the shepherd was giving to the shepherds account of Gelasia's strange disposition and of the wrongs she did him. At his side the shepherd had the fair little shepherdess who said he was her brother, whom Rosaura called, and, withdrawing with her to one side, she begged and prayed her to tell her what her brother was called, and if she had any other like him. To this the shepherdess replied that he was called Galercio, and that she had another called Artidoro, who was so like him that they could scarcely be distinguished save by some mark in their dress, or by the organ of the voice, which differed somewhat. She asked her also what Artidoro had been doing. The shepherdess answered her that he was on some mountains some distance from there, grazing part of Grisaldo's flock with another herd of goats of his own, and that he had never been willing to enter the village, or to hold converse with any one, since he had come from the banks of Henares; and together with these she gave her such other details that Rosaura was satisfied that the shepherd was not Artidoro, but Galercio, as Leonarda had said and that shepherdess said, whose name she learned was Maurisa. And taking her with her to where Galatea and the other shepherdesses were, she related again in the presence of Teolinda and Leonarda all she knew of Artidoro and Galercio, whereat Teolinda was soothed and Leonarda ill content, seeing how indisposed Galercio's mind was to think of her affairs. In the discourses the shepherdesses were holding, it chanced that Leonarda called the veiled Rosaura by her name, and Maurisa, hearing it, said:
'If I do not deceive myself, lady, my coming here and my brother's has been on your account.'
'In what way?' said Rosaura.
'I will tell it you, if you give me leave to tell it you alone,' replied the shepherdess.
'Willingly,' answered Rosaura, and the shepherdess going aside with her, said to her:
'Without any doubt, fair lady, it is to you and to the shepherdess Galatea that my brother and I come with a message from our master Grisaldo.'
'That is the case,' replied Rosaura, and calling Galatea, both listened to what Maurisa said from Grisaldo, which was to inform them that he would come in two days with two friends of his, to take her to his aunt's house, where they would in secret celebrate their nuptials, and together with this she gave to Galatea on behalf of Grisaldo some rich golden trinkets, by way of thanks for the willingness she had shown to entertain Rosaura. Rosaura and Galatea thanked Maurisa for the goodnews, and in reward for it the discreet Galatea wished to share with her the present Grisaldo had sent her, but Maurisa would in no way accept it. Then Galatea began again to ask information about the strange likeness there was between Galercio and Artidoro. All the time Galatea and Rosaura spent in talking to Maurisa, Teolinda and Leonarda occupied in looking at Galercio, for, Teolinda's eyes feasting on Galercio's face which resembled Artidoro's so much, she could not withdraw them from looking; and as those of the love-sick Leonarda knew on what they were looking, it was also impossible for her to turn them elsewhere. By this time the shepherds had consoled Galercio, though, for the ill he suffered, he counted every counsel and consolation vain and needless, all of which redounded to Leonarda's hurt. Rosaura and Galatea, seeing that the shepherds were coming towards them, bade Maurisa farewell, telling her to tell Grisaldo that Rosaura would be in Galatea's house. Maurisa took leave of them, and calling her brother, told him in secret what had passed with Rosaura and Galatea; and so with fair courtesy he took leave of them and of the shepherds and with his sister returned to his village. But the love-sick sisters Teolinda and Leonarda, who saw that when Galercio went, the light of their eyes and the life of their life went from them, both together approached Galatea and Rosaura and asked them to give them leave to follow Galercio, Teolinda giving as excuse that Galercio would tell her where Artidoro was, and Leonarda that it might be that Galercio's will would change, seeing the obligation in which he was to her. The shepherdesses granted them leave on the condition that Galatea had before begged of Teolinda that she should inform her of all her good or ill fortune. Teolinda repeated her promise again, and again taking her leave, followed the way Galercio and Maurisa were pursuing. The same was done forthwith, though in a different direction, by Timbrio, Thyrsis, Damon, Orompo, Crisio, Marsilio, and Orfenio, who went their way to the hermitage of Silerio with the fair sisters Nisida and Blanca, having first all taken leave of the venerable Aurelio and of Galatea, Rosaura and Florisa, and also of Elicio and Erastro, who did not wish to fail to go back with Galatea, Aurelio offering that on coming to his village, he would go straightway with Elicio and Erastro to seek them at Silerio's hermitage, and would bring something with which to make good the lack of means Silerio would have to entertain such guests. With this understanding they went away, some in one direction and some in another, and missing the old Arsindo at the leave-taking, they saw that, without taking leave of any one, he was going in the distance by the same way Galercio and Maurisa and the veiled shepherdesses were pursuing, whereat they wondered; and seeing that now the sun was hastening his course to enter by the gates of thewest, they did not wish to delay there further, in order to come to the village before the shades of night. Elicio and Erastro then, seeing themselves before the lady of their thoughts, in order to show somewhat that which they could not conceal, and to lighten the fatigue of the way, and also to fulfil the bidding of Florisa, who bade them sing something whilst they were going to the village, to the sound of Florisa's pipe began, Elicio to sing and Erastro to reply in this wise: