L'Aminta, di Torquato Tasso, favola boscherecchia. Tasso's Aminta, a pastoral comedy, in Italian and English Aminta. English and Italian. Tasso, Torquato, 1544-1595. 1650 Approx. 219 KB of XML-encoded text transcribed from 78 1-bit group-IV TIFF page images. Text Creation Partnership, Ann Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) : 2012-10 (EEBO-TCP Phase 2). A62822 Wing T171A ESTC R219155 99830671 99830671 35124

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 Early English books online. (EEBO-TCP ; phase 2, no. A62822) Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 35124) Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1641-1700 ; 2080:15) L'Aminta, di Torquato Tasso, favola boscherecchia. Tasso's Aminta, a pastoral comedy, in Italian and English Aminta. English and Italian. Tasso, Torquato, 1544-1595. Second edition. [11], p. 1, 135, [1] p. printed by L. Lichfield, for James Fletcher; and sold by J. Nourse bookseller, near Temple-Bar. London, Oxford : [1650?] Title page in red and black. Date of publication conjectured by Wing. Parallel Italian and English texts. In verse. Gathered in sixes. Final page bears dedication to the translator. Reproduction of the original in the British Library.

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L'AMINTA, DI Torquato Taſſo, FAVOLA BOSCHERECCIA.

Taſſo's Aminta, A Paſtoral COMEDY, In Italian and Engliſh.

Second Edition.

Laudetur, vigeat, placeat, relegatur, ametur.

OXFORD: Printed by L. Lichfield, for James Fletcher; and Sold by J. Nourſe Bookſeller, near Temple-Bar. LONDON.

〈1 page duplicate〉
INTERLOCUTORI. AMORE in habito Paſtorale. DAFNE Compagna di Silvia. SILVIA Amata da Aminta. AMINTA Inamordio di Silvia. TIRSI Compagno d' Aminta. SATIRO Inamorato di Silvia. NERINA Meſſagiera. ERGASTO Nuntio. ELPINO Paſtore. CHORO de' Paſtori.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE. LOVE in a Shepherd's Dreſs DAPHNE Sylvia's Companion. SYLVIA Lov'd by Aminta. AMINTA in Love with Sylvia. THYRSIS Aminta's Companion. SATYRUS in Love with Sylvia. NERINA a Meſſenger, ERGASTUS a Meſſenger. ELPIN a Shepherd. CHORUS of Shepherds.
PROLOGO. AMORE In Habito Paſtorale. CHI crideria, che ſotto humane forme, E ſotto queſte paſtorali ſpoglie, Foſſe naſcoſto un Dio? non mica un Dio Selvaggio, ò de la plebe degli Dei: Ma tra grandi, e celeſti il piu potente, Che fà ſpeſſo cader di mano à Marte La ſanguinoſo pada, & à Nettuno Scotitor de la terra, il gran Tridente, Et i folgori eterni al ſommo Giove, In queſto aſpetto certo, e in queſti panni Non riconoſcerà sì di leggiero Venere madre me ſuo figlio Amore. In da lei ſon conſtretto di fuggire, E celarmi da lei, perch' ella vuole Ch' io di me ſteſſo, e de le mie ſaette Faccia à ſuo ſenno; e qual femina, e quale Vana, & ambitioſa, mi riſpinge Pur tra le corti, e tra corone, e ſcettri, E quivi vuol, che impieghi ogni mia prova; E ſolo al volgo de' miniſtri miei, Miei minori fratelli, ella conſente L' albergar tra le ſelve, & oprar l' armi Ne' rozi petti. Io, che non ſon fanciullo, (Se ben hò volto fanciulleſco, & atti,) Voglio diſpor di me come à me piace Ch' à me fu, non à lei, conceſſa in ſorte La face onnipotente, e l' arco d' oro. Però, ſpeſſo, celandomi, e fuggendo, L' imperio nò, che in me non hà, ma i preghi C' han forza, porti da importuna madre, Ricovero ne' boſchi, e ne le caſe De le genti minute: ella mi ſegue, Dar promettendo à chi m' inſegna à lei, O dolci baci, ò coſa altra più cara; Quaſi io di dare in cambio non ſia buono A chi mi tace, ò mi naſconde à lei, O dolci baci, ò coſa altra piu cara. Queſto io ſo certo almen, che i baci miei Saran ſempre piu cari à le fanciulle, (Se io, che ſon Amor, d' amor m' intendo:) Onde ſovente ella mi cerca in vano; Che rivelarmi altri non vuole, e tace. Ma, per iſtarne anco piu occulto, ond' ella Ritrouar non mi poſſa à i contraſegni, Depoſto hò l' ali, la faretra, e l' arco: Non però diſarmato io quì ne vengo; Che queſta, che par Verga, è la mia Face, (Così l' ho transformata) e tutta ſpira D' inviſible fiamme: e queſto Dardo, (Se bene egli non hà la punta d'oro) E di tempre divine, ed imprime amore Dovunque fiede. Io voglio hoggi con queſto Far cupa, ed immedicabile ferita Nel duro ſen de la più cruda Ninfa, Che mai ſeguisse il Choro di Diana. Nè la piaga di Silvia fia minore, (Che queſt e'l nome de l' alpeſtre Ninfa) Che foſſe quelia, che pur feci io ſteſſo Nel molle ſen d' Amita, (hor ſon molt' anni,) Quando lei tenerella, ei tenerello Seguiva ne le caccie, e ne i diporti. E perche il colpo mio più in lei s'interni, Aſpettero, che la pietà molliſca Quel duro gelo, che d'intorno al core L'hà riſtretto il rigor de l'honeſtate, Ed il virginal faſto; ed in quel punto, Ch'ei fia più molle, lancerogli il dardo. E per far sì bell'opra a mio grand'agio, Io ne vo à meſcolarmi frà la turba De' Paſtori feſtanti, e coronati, Che già quis'e inviata, ove à diporto Si ſtà ne' dí ſolenni, eſſer fingendo Uno di loro ſchiera, ed in queſto luogo, In queſto luogo a punto io faro il colpo, Che veder non potrallo occhio mortale. Queſte ſelve hoggi ragionar d'amore S' udiranno in nuova guiſa: e ben parrassi, Che la mia Deità ſia quì, preſente In ſe medeſima, e non ne' ſuoi Miniscri. Spirerò nobil ſenſi a' rozi petti; Raddoldcirò de le lor lingue il ſuono; Perche ovunque i mi ſia, io ſono Amore, Ne' Paſtori non men, che ne gl' Heroi; E la diſagguaglianza de' ſoggetti, Come à me piace, agguaglio: e questa è pure Suprema gloria, e gran miracol mio, Render fimili à le più dotte Cetre Le rustiche Sampogne; e ſe mia Madre, Che ſi ſdegna vedermi errar frà boſchi, Ciò non conoſce, è cieca ella, e non io, Cui cieco à torto ill cieco Volgo appella.
THE PROLOGUE. LOVE in a Shepherd's Dreſs.

WHO wou'd believe, that under an human Form, and under theſe paſtoral Spoils, ſhould be conceal'd a God? and that not one of the Sylvan Deities, or of the vulgar Rank of Gods; but amongſt the Superior, and the Heavenly Ones the moſt Powerful: who often cauſes the bloody Sword to fall from the Hand of Mars and from Neptune, the Shaker of the Earth, the great Trident, and the eternal Thunders from Supreme Jove. In this Diſguiſe, certainly, and in theſe Cloaths, Venus, my Mother, wont ſo eaſily know me to be her Son Cupid. From her I am compell'd to run away, and to conceal my ſelf from her, becauſe ſhe has a mind that I ſhould diſpoſe of my Self, and my Arrows, according to her Inclinations, and as a Woman vain and ambitious, confines me only amongſt Courts, Crowns, and Scepters; there ſhe would have me employ all my Power, and gives leave only to the vulgar Miniſtring-Loves, my younger Brothers, to reſide in the Woods, and to exerciſe their Arms on ruder Breaſts: I, who am no Child, (though I have a Face and Actions that are Childiſh) am reſolv'd to diſpoſe of my ſelf, as it pleaſes me; for to me, not to her, were allotted by the Fates, the omnipotent Torch, and the golden Bow. Therefore often by concealing my ſelf, and ſhunning, not her Command, for ſhe has none over me, but her Intreaties, which have ſome Force, as they come from an importunate Mother, I retire into the Woods, and Cottages of the lower Rank of People: ſhe purſues me, promiſing to give to him that diſcovers me to her, either ſweet Kiſſes, or ſomething elſe more dear; as if I was not capable of giving, in Reward to the Perſon that is ſilent, and conceals me from her, either ſweet Kiſſes, or ſomething elſe more dear. This I certainly know, at leaſt, that my Kiſſes will always be more dear to the Young Maids, (if I, who am Love, know any Thing of Love:) hence 'tis that ſhe often ſeeks me in vain; and all are unwilling to diſcover me, and are ſilent: But that I may be yet more private, ſo that ſhe may not be able to find me out by my Marks, I have laid aſide my Wings, my Quiver, and my Bow: not that I come here unarm'd;

For this, which appears to be a Sheep-Hook, is my Torch: (thus I have transform'd it,) and all breathes inviſible Flames: and this Dart, (tho' it has not the Head of Gold) is of divine Temper, and makes an impreſſion of Love whereſoever it Strikes. I deſign to Day with this to make a deep, and incurable Wound in the obdurate Breaſt of the moſt cruel Nymph, that ever follow'd the Train of Diana; nor ſhall the Wound of Sylvia be leſs, (for that is the Name of the Stony-hearted Nymph) than was that, which I made my ſelf, ſome Years ago, in the ſoft Breaſt of Aminta, when the tender Boy, follow'd the tender Maid in the Chace, and the rural Diverſions: and that my Stroke may make the deeper Impreſſion on her, I'll wait, until Pity ſoftens that hard Ice, which the Rigour of Honour, and Virgin Pride, have congeal'd within, around her Heart; and in that Inſtant, when ſhe becomes moſt Soft, I'll lance the Dart; and in order to accompliſh ſo noble an Exploit with more Eaſe, I am going to mingle my Self with a Company of feaſting Shepherds, crown'd with Garlands, who are now on their way to the Place where the Games are Celebrated on ſolemn Days, pretending my ſelf one of their Company: and in this Manner and in that Place I'll give a Wound, which mortal Eye ſhall not be able to diſcern. Theſe Woods ſhall be heard this Day to diſcourſe of Love — after after an unuſual Manner: and it ſhall well appear, that it is my Deity that is here preſent in his own Perſon, and not in his Miniſters. I'll inſpire rude Breaſts with noble Sentiments, I'll ſweeten the Language of their Tongues, becauſe where ever I am, I am Love, amongſt Shepherds no leſs than among Heroes; and the Inequality of my Subjects, as it pleaſes me, I'll equal: and this is my ſupreme Glory, and my miraculous Power, to make the rural Reed equal the moſt Maſterly Lyre; and if my Mother, who diſdains to ſee me roving in the Woods, does not know this ſhe's Blind, and not I, whom the Vulgar, Blind themſelves, erroneouſly call Blind.
ATTO PRIMO, SCENA PRIMA. Dafne. Silvia. VORRAI dunque pur, Silvia, Da i piaceri di Venere lontana Menarne tu queſta tuagiovanezza? Ne'l dolce nome di Madre udirai? Ne'intorno ti vedrai vezzoſamente Scherzar i figli pargolletti? ah, cangia, Cangia (prego) conſiglio, Pazzarella che ſei. Sil. Altri ſegua i diletti d l' amore, Se pur v' è ne l' amor alcun diletto: Me queſta vita giova, e' l mio traſtullo E la cura de l' Arco, e de gli Strali; Seguir le Fere fugaci, e le forti Atterrar combattendo: e ſe non mancano Saette à la faretra, ò Fere al boſco, Non tem' io, ch' à me manchino diporti. Daf. Inſipidi diporti veramente, Et inſipida vita: e s' à te piace E ſol, perche non hai provata l'altra. Così la gente prima, che già viſſe Nel mondo ancora ſemplice, & infante, Stimò dolce bevanda, e dolce cibo, L' acqua, e le ghiande; & hor l' acqua, e le ghiande Sono cibo, e bevanda d' animali, Poiche s'è posto in uſo il grano, e l' uva. Forſe, ſe tu gustaſſi anco una volta La milleſima parte delle gioie, Che guſta un cor amato riamando Diresti, ripentita, ſoſpirando: Perduto è tutto il tempo, Che in amar non ſi ſpende; O mia fuggita etate! Quante vedove notti, Quanti dì ſolitari Hò conſumati indarno, Che ſi poteano ſpendere in quest' uſo, Il qual più replicato, è più ſoave. Cangia, cangia conſiglio, Pazzarella che ſei; Che 'l pentirſi da ſezzo nulla giova. Sil. Quando io dirò pentita, ſoſpirando Queste parole, che tu fingi, & orni Come à te piace, torneranno i fiumi A le lor fonti, e i Lupi fuggirano Da gli Agni, e 'l veltro le timide lepri, Amerà l' Orſo il Mare, e 'l Delfin l' Alpi, Daf. Conoſco la ritroſa Fanciullezza: Qual tù ſei, tal io fui, così portava La vita, e'l volto, e così biondo il crine: E così vermigliuzza havea la bocca; E così miſta col candor la roſa Ne le guancie pienotte, e delicate. Era il mio ſommo guſto (hor men 'auveggio, Guſto di ſciocca) ſol tender le reti, Ed inveſcar le panie, ed aguzzare Il dardo ad una cote, eſpiar l' orme, E'l covil de le Fere: e, ſe talhora Vedea guattarmi da cupido Amante, Chinava gli occhi, ruſtica, e ſelvaggia, Piena di ſdegno, e di vergogna, e m'era Mal grata la mia gratia, e diſpiacente Quanto di me piaceva altrui, pur come Foſſe mia colpa e mia onta, e mio ſcorno L'eſſer guardata, amata, e deſiata, Mà che non puotè il tempo? e che non puotè, Servendo, meritando, ſupplicando, Fare un fedele, ed importuno Amante? Fui vinta, io te'l confeſſo, e furon l'armi Del Vincitore, humiltà, ſofferenza, Pianti, ſoſpiri, e dimandar mercede. Moſtrommi l'ombra d'una breve notte Allhora quel, che'l lungo corſo, e'l lume Di mille giorni non m'havean' moſtrato: Ripreſi allhor me ſteſſa, e la mia cieca Simplicitate, e diſſi ſoſpirando: Eccoti Cinthia il Corno, eccoti l' Arco, Ch'io rinuntio i tuoi Strali, e la tua vita. Così ſpero veder, ch'anco il tuo Aminta Pur on giorno domeſtichi la tua Rozza ſalvatichezza, ed ammoliſca Queſto tuo cor di ferro, e di macigno. Forſe ch'ei non è belle? ò ch'ei nont' ama? O ch' altri lui non ama? ò ch'ei ſi cambia Per l'amor d'altri, over per l'odio tuo? Forſe ch'in gentilezza egli ti cede? Se tù ſei figlia di Cidippe, à cui Fù padre il Dio di queſto nobil Fiume, Ed egli è figlio di Silvano, à cui Pane fu Padre, il gran Dio de' Paſtori. Non è men di te bella, ſe ti guardi Dentro lo ſpecchio mai d'alcuna fonte, La candida Amarilli; e pur ei ſprezza Le ſue dolci luſinghe, e ſegue i tuoi Diſpettoſi faſtidi, hor fingi (e voglia Pur Dio, che queſto fingere ſia vano) Ch'egli, 'teco ſdegnato, al fin procuri, Ch'a lui piaccia colei, cui tanto ei piace, Qual animo fia il tuo? ò con quali occhi Il vedrai fatto alrui? fatto felice Ne l'altrui braccia, e te ſchernir ridendo? Sil. Faccia Aminta di ſe, e de' ſuoi amori, Quel ch'a lui piace, à me nulla ne cale: E, pur che non ſia mio, ſia di chi vuole: Mà eſſer non può mio, s'io lui non voglio: Nè s'anc • egli mio foſſe, io ſarei ſua. Daf. Onde naſce il tuo odio? Sil. Dal ſuo amore. Daf. Piacevol padre di figlio crudele. Mà quando mai da i manſueti Agnelli Nacquer le Tigri, ò da i bei Cigni i Corvi? O me inganni, ò te ſteſſa. Sil. Odio il ſuo amore, Ch' odi la mia honeſtate & amai lui Mentr'ei volſe di me quel, ch'io voleva. Daf. Tù volevi il tuo peggio: egli à te brama Quel ch'à ſe brama. Sil. Dafne, ò taci, ò parla D'altro, ſe vuoi riſpoſta. Daf. Hor guata modi? Guata, che diſpettoſa Giovinetta? Hor riſpondimi almen, s'altri t'amaſſe, Gradireſti il ſuo amore in queſta guiſa? Sil. In queſta guiſa gradirei ciaſcuno Inſidiator di mia virginitate, Che tu dimandi Amante, ed io Nemico. Daf. Stimi dunque nemico Il Monton de l' Agnella? De la Giovenca il Toro? Stimi dunque nemico Il Tortore à la fida Tortorella? Stimi dunque ſtagione Di nimicitia, e d'ira La dolce Primavera? C'hor allegra, e ridente Riconſiglia ad amare Il Mondo, e gli Animali, E gli Huomini, e le Donne: e non t'accorgi, Come tutte le coſe Hor ſono innamorate D'un' amor pien di gioia, e di ſalute? Mira là quel Colombo Con che dolce ſuſurro luſingando Bacia la ſua compagna, Odi quel Uſcignuolo, Che và di ramo in ramo Cantando, Io amo, io amo: e ſe no'l ſai, La Biſcia laſcia il ſuo veleno, e corre Cupida al ſuo Amatore: Van le Tigri in amore: Ama il Leon ſuperbo: e tù ſol fiera, Più che tutte le fere; Albergo gli dineghi nel tuo petto. Mà che dico Leoni, e Tigri, e Serpi, Che pur han ſentimento? amano ancora Gli Alberi. Veder puoi con quanto affetto, Et con quanti iterati abbracciamenti La Vite s'auviticchia al ſuo marito: L' Abete ama l' Abete: il Pino il Pino: L'Orno per l'Orno, e per la Salce il Salce, El'un per l'altro Faggio arde, e ſoſpira. Quella Quercia, che pare Si ruvida, e ſelvaggia, Sent' anch' ella il potere De l'amoroſo foco: e ſe tù haveſſt Spirto, e ſenſo d'Amore, intendereſti I ſuoi muti ſoſpiri. Hor tù da meno Eſſer vuoi de le piante, Per non eſſer amante? Cangia cangia conſiglio, Pazzarella che ſei. Sil. Hor sù, quando i ſoſpiri Udirò de le piante, Io ſon contenta allhor d'eſſer amame. Daf. Tù prendi a gabbo i miei fidi conſigli, E burli mie ragioni? O in amore Sorda non men, che ſciocca: mà và pure. Che verrà tempo, che ti pentirai Non haverli ſeguiti, e già non dico Allhor che fuggirai le fonti, ov'hora Speſſo ti ſpecchi, e forſe ti vagheggi: Allhor che fuggirai le fonti, ſolo Per tema di vederti creſpa, e brutta, Queſto averratti ben, mà non t'annuncio Gia queſto ſolo, che, bench' è gran male, E pero mal commune. Hor non rammenti Cio che l' altr'hieri Elpino racontava, Il ſaggio Elpino, à la bella Licori, Licori, ch'in Elpin puotè con gli occhi Quel, ch' ei potere in lei dovria col canto, Se'l dovere in amor ſi ritrovaſſe? E'l raccontava udendo Batto, e Tirſi, Gran maeſtri d' Amore, e'l raccontava, Ne l'antro de l'Aurora, ove su l' uſcio E ſcritto, lungi, ah lungi ite, profani. Diceva egli, e diceva, che glie'l diſſe Quel Grande, che cantò l' Armi, e gli Amori, Ch'à lui laſciò la Fiſtola morendo, Che là giù ne lo'nferno è un nero ſpeco, Là dove eſſala un fumo pien di puzza Da le triſte fornaci d'Acheronte: E che quivi punite eternamente In tormenti di tenebre, e di pianto Son le femine ingrate, e ſconoſcenti. Quivi aſpetta, ch'albergo s'apparecchi A la tua feritate. E dritto è ben; ch'il fumo Tragga mai ſempre il pianto da quegli occhi, Onde trarlo gia mai Non pote la pietate. Segui, ſegui tuo ſtile, Oſtinata che ſei. Sil. Ma che fè allhor Licori, e com' riſpoſe A queſte coſe? Daf. Tù de' fatti propri Nulla ti curi, e voi ſaper gli altrui. Con gli occhi gli riſpoſe. Sil. Come riſponder ſol puotè con gli occhi? Daf. Riſpoſer queſti con dolce ſorriſo, Volti ad Elpino, Il core, e noi ſiam tuoi, Tù bramar più non dei, Coſtei non puotè Più darti, e tanto ſolo baſterebbe Per intiera mercede al caſto Amante, Se ſtimaſſe veraci come belli, Quegli occhi, e lor preſtaſſe intera fede. Sil. E perche lor non crede? Daf. Hor tù non ſai Ciò che Tirſi ne ſcriſſe? allhor, ch'ardendo Forſennato egli errò per le foreſte Si ch'inſieme movea pietate, e riſo Ne le vezzoſe Ninfe, e ne'Paſtori; Ne già coſe ſcrivea degne di riſo Se ben coſe facea degne di riſo, Lo ſcriſſe in mille piante, e con le piante Crebbero i verſi, e così leſſi in una: Specchi del cor fallaci, infidi lumi, Ben riconoſco in voi gl' inganni voſtri: Ma che pro? ſe ſchivarli Amor mi toglie. Sil. Io qui trapaſſo il tempo ragionando, Ne mi ſouviene, c'hoggie è il dì preſcritto, Ch'andar ſi deve à la caccia ordinata Ne l'Eliceto. Hor ſe ti pare aſpetta, Ch'io pria deponga nel ſolito fonte Il ſudore, e la polve, ond'hier mi ſparſi, Seguendo in caccia un •… dama veloce, Ch'al fin giunſi, & anciſi. Daf. Aſpetterotti, E forſe anch'io mi bagnerò nel fonte. Ma fino à le mie caſe ir prima voglio, Che l'hora non è tarda come pare. Tù ne le tue m'aſpetta, ch'. à te venga, E penſa in tanto pur quel che più importa De la caccia, e del fonte: e, ſe non ſai, Credi di non ſaper, e credi a' Savi.
ACT the FIRST, SCENE the FIRST. Daphne. Sylvia. Daph.

ARE you reſolv'd then, Sylvia, to ſpend this Youth of yours a ſtranger to the Pleaſures of Venus? will you never hear the ſweet Name of Mother? and will you never ſee your little Boys play prettily around you? Ah! change, change, I pray thee, thy Reſolution, fond trifler that thou art.

 Sylv.

Let others follow the Delights of Love, if there's in Love any Delight: this State of Life pleaſes me, and all my Diverſion is the Care of my Bow, and Arrows; to purſue the flying Beaſts, and pin the Savage to the Ground in Combat; and if there fails not Arrows to my Quiver, or wild Beaſts to the Wood;

I don't fear, that Sports will ever fail me.

 Daph.

Inſipid Sports truly, and inſipid Life, and if it pleaſes you, 'tis only, becauſe you have not experienc'd any other. Thus the firſt Race of Mankind, who liv'd heretofore in the World, whilſt it was yet in its Simplicity and Infancy, accounted Water and Acorns delicious Drink, and delicious Food; and now Water and Acorns are become the Food, and the Drink of Beaſts, ſince Corn and the Grape are brought into Uſe. Perhaps, if you had taſted but once the Thouſandth Part of the Joys, which an amorous Heart feels in the Return of mutual Love, you would ſay, repenting with a Sigh, Loſt is all the Time that is not ſpent in Love: Alas, my Ill-ſpent Youth! How many lonely Nights, how many melancholly Days have I ſpent in vain; which might have been employ'd in that Uſe, which the oft'ner 'tis repeated, proves more delightful. Change, Change thy Reſolution, fond Trifler that thou art; for it avails nothing to repent too late.

 Sylv.

When I ſhall ſay, repenting with a Sigh, theſe Words which you invent and adorn as you pleaſe, the Rivers ſhall return back to their Fountains, the Wolves ſhall fly from Lambs, and Grey-Hounds from the tim'rous Hares, the Boar ſhall love the Sea, and the Dolphin the Alps.

 Daph.

Well I know the perverſneſs of Youth. As thou art now, ſuch once was I: ſuch was my Carriage, and my Face, and ſuch my beautiful Hair, my Mouth, like thine, was of Vermilion Die, and thus the Roſe was mixt with pure White on my plump and delicate Cheeks, it was then my higheſt Pleaſure (now I perceive it, the Pleaſure of an Idiot) to ſpread my Nets, to lay the Birdlime Twiggs; to ſharpen my Dart upon a Whet-ſtone, to ſpy out the Foot-ſteps, and the Cover of the Game; and if at that time I ſaw an ardent Lover looking on me, I caſt down my Eyes, Ruſtick and Savage as I was, full of Diſdain and of Shame; to me my own Beauty was diſagreeable, and whatever I had that pleas'd others, was diſpleaſing to my ſelf: as if it had been my Fault, my Shame, and my Reproach, to be lookt at, lov'd and deſir'd. But what can not Time do? and what can't a faithful, and importunate Lover, by Service, Merit, and Intreaty? I was conquer'd, I confeſs; and the Arms of the Conqueror were Submiſſion, Sufferings, Tears, Sighs, and Importunity in requeſting a Return to his Love. The Shade of one ſhort Night ſhew'd me then that, which along Courſe of Time, and the Light of a Thouſand Days had not ſhew'd me. Then I blam'd my ſelf, and my blind Simplicity, and ſaid with a Sigh: Here, Cynthia, take thy Horn, take thy Bow, for I renounce thy Arrows, and thy way of Life.

Thus I hope to ſee, that one Day your Aminta will tame your ſavage Nature, and will ſoften that Iron, rocky Heart of thine. Perhaps he is not handſome, or loves not you, or no one elſe loves him? or perhaps he changes either for the Love of another, or your Hatred? perhaps he yields to you in Birth, if you are the Daughter of Cidippus, to whom the God of this noble River was Father; he is the Son of Sylvanus, to whom Pan was Father, the great God of the Shepherds. Bright Amarillis is no leſs Fair than you, if ever you did view your ſelf in the Mirror of a clear Fountain; and yet he deſpiſes her inviting Charms, and follows your contemptuous Scorn. Now make a Fiction, (and Heaven grant it may be only a Fiction) that he, being diſguſted at you, ſhould bring himſelf at laſt to love the Maid, by whom he is lov'd ſo much; what will thy Mind be then; and with what Eyes will thou behold him another's? happy in another's Arms, and inſulting thee with a Smile.

 Sylv.

Let Aminta diſpoſe of Himſelf, and his Love as he pleaſes, it matters not me; and ſo he be not mine, let him be whoſe he will; but he can't be mine, except I will, neither, were he mine, would I be his.

 Daph.

From whence does your Hatred takes its Birth?

 Sylv.

From his Love.

 Daph.

Too gentle Father for ſo cruel a Son, but when were ever Tygers born of tame Lambs? or Crows of beautiful Swans? Either you deceive me, or your ſelf.

 Sylv.

I am an Enemy to his Love; becauſe That is an Enemy to my Honour, and I lov'd him as long as he would have nothing of me but what I'd have.

 Daph.

You made the worſe Choice: He only wiſhes to you what he wiſhes to himſelf.

 Sylv.

Daphne, Either be ſilent, or ſpeak of ſome other Subject, if you will have an Anſwer.

 Daph.

Look ye there now, obſerve the coy Diſdain of Youth. Anſwer me now however: ſhould another love you, would you treat his love in this manner?

 Sylv.

In this manner would I treat every Enſnarer of my Virginity, whom you call a Lover, and I an Enemy.

 Daph.

Do'ſt thou eſteem then an Enemy, the Ram to the Ew? the Bull to the Heifer? do'ſt thou eſteem then an Enemy, the Turtle to his faithful Mate? do'ſt thou imagine then the pleaſant Spring to be the ſeaſon of Enmity and Wrath? which now jocund and ſmiling, reconciles the whole World to Love, as well brute Beaſts as Men and Women: and do'ſt thou not perceive, how all Things are now inſpir'd with a joyous and ſalutary Love? See there that Dove, which flattering with ſweet murmurs, Kiſſes his Companion: hear that Nightingale, which hops from Bough to Bough ſinging, I love, I love, Even the Adder (whether thou know'ſt it or no) lays aſide his Poiſon, and runs deſirous to his Lover; Tygers ruſh into Love, the haughty Lion loves, and you only, more Savage than all the wild Beaſts, deny Love a Reception in your Breaſt? But why do I mention Lions, Tygers, and Serpents, which are indued with Senſe? nay moreover, even the Trees Love. You may obſerve with how great Affection, and how many repeated Embraces, the Vine twines herſelf around her Husband, the Fir-Tree loves the Fir-Tree, the Pine the Pine, the Elm for the Elm, and for the Willow the Willow, and one Beech-Tree for another burns and ſighs. That very Oak, that appears ſo rugged, and ſavage, feels within itſelf the Power of an amorous Fire: and, if thou hadſt any Spirit or Senſe of Love, thou would'ſt hear his mute Sighs. Will you be then inferiour to the Plants, by not being a Lover? Change, Change thy Reſolution fond Trifler that thou art.

 Sylv.

Well then, when I hear the Sighs of the Plants, then I am content to be a Lover.

 Daph.

You turn into Ridicule my faithful Counſel, and Burleſque my Reaſons. Oh! no leſs Deaf than Silly in Love: but go now, the Time will come that you ſhall repent that you did not follow them, and I don't mean when you ſhall fly from the Fountains, where now you often view your ſelf, and perhaps admire; when you ſhall fly from the Fountains, only for fear of ſeeing yourſelf wrinkled and deform'd; this will happen to you. But I give you warning, not of this only, which though it is a great Misfortune, is a common one. Don't you remember that which Elpin related the other Day; the wiſe Elpin to the beautiful Lycoris, who had that Power over Elpin with her Eyes, which he ought to have had over her with his Songs, if what ought to be, could always be found in Love; he related in the hearing of Battus and Thyrſis, great Maſters of Love, and he related it in the Cave of Aurora, where over the Door is written, Far, Far hence go ye Profane. He ſaid, and ſaid, that That great Poet told it him, who Sung of Arms, and Love, and bequeath'd him his Pipe when he died; that there below in Hell is a black Den, where iſſues out a ſtinking Smoak from the dreadful Furnace of Acaron; and that there ungrateful and unrelenting Women are eternally puniſhed in Torments of Darkneſs and Tears. There expect that a Reception will be prepar'd for thy Cruelty. And juſt it is that Smoak ſhould ſome Time be ever drawing Tears from thoſe Eyes, from whence Pity could never draw them. Follow, follow now thy own Courſe, obſtinate that thou art.

 Sylv.

But what did Licoris then, and what anſwer did ſhe make?

 Daph.

You take no Care of your own Affairs, and are willing to know another's. She anſwer'd him with her Eyes.

 Sylv.

How could ſhe anſwer him with her Eyes only?

 Daph.

They being turn'd upon Elpin anſwer'd, with a Smile, the Heart and we are thine: more you ought not to deſire: the Donor can beſtow no more: and this only had been ſufficient as a Reward to a chaſt Lover, if he had thought thoſe Eyes as true as fair, and put an entire Confidence in them.

 Sylv.

And why did he not believe them!

 Daph.

Don't you know what Thyrſis wrote of them? when being in Love he wandred frantick through the Foreſts, ſo that he mov'd at the ſame Time the compaſſion, and the laughter of the Beautiful Nymphs and Shepherds; that which he wrote was not worthy of Laughter, tho' that was worthy of Laughter that he acted, he writ it on a thouſand Plants, and with the Plants the Verſes grew, and on one of them are thus read: Deluding Eyes, falſe Mirrors of the Heart, Too well I know your ſoft-deceiving Art; But what avails? if Love enforce my Will, T' embrace your Harms, and dote upon you ſtill.

Sylv.

While I am paſſing the Time in talking, I forget that this is the appointed Day for going to the Chaſe agreed on in the oaken Grove. Stay now, if you pleaſe, till I have firſt waſht off, in my accuſtom'd Fountain, the Sweat and the Duſt with which I was cover'd Yeſterday, in chaſing a ſwift Doe, which at length I overtook, and kill'd.

 Daph.

I'll wait, and perhaps will bath my ſelf in the ſame Fountain: but I'll go firſt to my Houſe, for it is not as yet late, as you may ſee; do you wait for me at Yours, till I come to you: and in the mean while think upon that which is of greater Importance than either the Chaſe, or the Fountain; and if you don't know this, believe that you are Ignorant, and believe the Experienc'd.
SCENA SECONDA. Aminta. Tirſi. Hô viſto al pianto mio Riſponder per pietate i ſaſſi, e l' onde, E ſoſpirar le fronde Hò viſto al pianto mio: Mà non hô viſto mai, Ne ſpero di vedere Compaſſion ne la crudele, e bella, Che non sò s'io la chiami ò Donna, ò fera; Mà nega d'eſſer Donna, Poiche nega pietate A chi non la negaro Le coſe inanimate. Tir. Paſee l'Agna l'herbette, il Lupo l'Agne; Mà il crudo Amor di lagrime ſi paſce, Nè ſe ne moſtra mai ſatollo. Am. Ahi lasso, Ch' Amor ſatollo è del mio pianto homai, E ſolo hà ſete del mio ſangue, e toſto Voglio, ch'egli, e queſt' empia il ſangue mio Bevan' con gl'occhi. Tir. Ahi Aminta, ahi Aminta, Che parli? ò che vaneggi? hor ti conforta, Ch'un'altra troverai, ſe ti diſprezza Queſta crudele. Am. Ohime come poſs'io Altri trovar, ſe me trovar non poſſo? Se perduto hò me ſteſſo, quale acquiſto Faro mai, che mi piaccia? Tir. O miſerrello, Non diſperar, ch'acquiſterai coſtei. La lunga etate inſegna al'huom di porre Freno à i leoni, ed à le tigri Hircane. Am. Mà il miſero non puotè à la ſua morte Indugio ſoſtener di lungo tempo. Tir. Sarà corto l'indugio: in breve ſpatio S'adira, e in breve ſpatio anco ſi placa Femina, coſa mobil per natura, Più che fraſchetta al vento, e più che cima Di pieghevole ſpica, mà, ti prego Fa, ch io ſappia più a dentro de la tua Dura conditione, e de l'amore: Che ſe ben confeſſato m'hai più volte D'amare, mi taceſti però dove Foſſe poſto l'amore, ed è ben degna La fedele amicitia, ed il commune Studio de le Muſe, ch'a me ſcuopra Cio ch'à gli altri ſi cela. Am. Io ſon contento Tirſi, à te dir ciò, che le ſelve, e i monti, E i fiumi ſanno, e gli huomini non ſanno; Ch'io ſono homai si proſſimo à la morte, Ch' è ben ragion, ch'io laſci, chi ridica La cagion del morire, e che l' incida Ne la ſcorza d'un faggio, preſſo il luogo, Dove ſara ſepolto il corpo eſangue: Si che tal hor paſſondovi quell' empia, Si goda di calcar l' oſſa infelici Co'l piè ſuperbo, e tra ſe dica, E queſto Pur mio trionfo; e goda di vedere, Che nota ſia la ſua vittoria à tutti Li paſtori paeſani, e pellegrini, Che quivi il caſo guidi, e forſe (ahi, ſpere Troppo alte coſe) un giorno eſſer potrebbe, Ch'ella, commoſſa da tarda pietate, Piangeſſe morto, chi già vivo ucciſe; Dicendo, O pur qui foſſe, e foſſe mio! Hor odi. Tir. Segui pur, ch'io bent'aſcolto, E forſe à miglior fin, che tu non penſi. Am. Eſſendo io fanciulletto, sì che à pena Giunger potea con la man pargoletta A corre i frutti da i piegati rami De gli arboſcelli, intrinſeco divenni De la più vaga, e cara Verginella, Che mai ſpiegasse al vento chioma d'oro: La figliuola conoſci di Cidippe, E di Montan ricchiſſimo d'armenti, Silvia, honor de le ſelve, ardor de l'alme? Di queſta parlo, ahi laſſo! viſſi à queſta Così unito alcun tempo, che fra due Tortorelle più fida compagnia Non ſarà mai, nè fue. Congiunti eran gli alberghi, Ma più congiunti i cori: Conforme era l'etate, Ma'l penſier piu conforme: Seco tendeva inſidie con le reti A i peſci, ed à gli augelli, e ſeguitava I cervi ſeco, e le veloci dame; E'l diletto, e la preda era commune, Ma, mentre io fea rapina d'animali, Fui, non sò come, à me ſteſſo rapito. A poco à poco nacque nel mio petto, Non ſò da qual radice, Com'herba ſuol, che per ſe ſteſſa germini, Un'incognito affetto, Che mi fea deſiare D'eſſer ſempre preſente A la mia bella Silvia, E bevea da' ſuoi lumi Un' eſtranea dolcezza, Che laſciava nel fine Un non sò che d'amaro: Soſpirava ſovente, e non ſapeva La cagion de' ſoſpiri. Così fui prima Amante, ch' intendeſſi Che coſa foſſe Amore. Ben me n'accorſi al fin, ed in qual modo, Hora m'aſcolta, e nota. Tir. E' da notare. Am. Al'ombra d'un bel faggio Silvia, e Fil •… Sedean'un giorno, ed io con loro inſieme; Quando un' ape ingegnoſa, che cogliendo Sen' giva il mel per que' prati fioriti, A le guancie di Fillide volando, A le guancie virmiglie, come roſa, Le morſe, e le rimorſe avidamente; Ch'à la ſimilitudine ingannata Forſe un fior le credette, allhora Filli Cominciò lamentarſi, impatiente De l'acuta puntura: Ma la mia bella Silvia diſſe, Taci, Taci, non ti lagnar Filli, perch'io Con parole d'incante leverotti Il dolor de la picciola ferita; A me inſegnò già queſto ſecreto La ſaggia Arteſia, e n'hebbe per merced • Quel mio corno d'avorio ornato d'oro Cosí dicendo, auvicinò le labra De la ſua bella, e dolciſſima bocca A la guancia rimorſa, e con ſoave Suſurro mormorò non sò che verſi. O mirabili effetti! ſentì toſto Ceſſar la doglia, o feſſe la virtute Di que' magici detti, o, com'io eredo, La virtù de la bocca, Che ſana ciò che tocca. Io, che fino à quel punto altro non volſi, Che'l ſoave ſplendor de gli occhi belli, E le dolci parole, aſſai più dolci, Che'l mormorar d'un lento fiumicello, Che rompa il corſo fra minuti ſaſſi, O-che'l garrir del'aura infra le frondi; Allhor ſentii nel cor novo deſire D'appreſſare à la ſua queſta mia bocca: E fatto non sò come aſtuto, e ſcaltro Più de l'uſato, (guarda quanto Amore Aguzza l'intelletto) mi ſouvenne D'un' inganno gentile, co'l qual' io Recar poteſſi à fine il mio talento: Che, fingendo, ch'un' ape haveſſe morſo Il mio labro di ſotto, incominciai A lamentarmi di cotal maniera, Che quella medicina, che la lingua Non richiedeva, il volto richiedeva. La ſimplicetta Silvia, Pietoſa del mio male, S'offrì di dar aita A la finta ferita, ahi laſſo, e fece Più cupa, e più mortale La mia piaga verace, Quando le labra ſue Giunſe à le labra mie, Nè l'api d'alcun fiore Coglion sì dolce il mel, ch'allhora io colſi Da quelle freſche roſe; Se ben gli ardenti baci, Che ſpingeva il deſire à inhumidirſi, Raffreno la temenza, E la vergogna, ò felli Piu lenti e meno audaci: Mà mentre al cor ſcendeva Quella dolcezza miſta D'un ſecreto veleno, Tal diletto n'havea, Che fingendo, ch'ancor non mi paſſaſſe Il dolor di quel morſo, Fei sì, ch' ella più volte Vi replicò l'incanto. Da indi in quà andò in guiſa creſcendo, Il deſire, e l'affanno impatiente: Che, non potendo più capir nel petto, Fù forza, che ſcoppiaſſe; & una volta, Che in cerchio ſedevam Ninfe, e Paſtori, E facevamo alcuni noſtri giuochi, Che ciaſcun ne l'orrechio del vicino Mormorando diceva un ſuo ſecreto, Silvia, le diſſi, io per te ardo, e certo Morrò ſe non m'aiti. A quel parlare Chinò ella il bel volto, e fuor le venne Un' improviſo, inſolito roſſore, Che diede ſegno di vergogna, e d' ira: Nè hebbi altra riſpoſta, che un ſilentio; Un ſilentio turbato, e pien di dure Minacce. indi ſi tolſe, e più non volle Nè vedermi, nè udirmi. e gia tre volte Hà il nudo Mietitor tronche le ſpiche, Et altretante il Verno ha ſcoſſi i boſchi De le lor verdi chiome: & ogni coſa Tentata hò per placarla, fuor che Morte. Mi reſta ſol, che, per placarla, io mora, E morrò volontier, pur ch' io ſia certo, Ch' ella ò ſe ne compiaccia, ò ſe ne doglia; Nè ſò di tai due coſe, qual più brami. Ben fora la pietà premio maggiore A la mia fede, e maggior ricompenſa A la mia morte: mà bramar non deggio Coſa, che turbi il bel lume ſereno A gli occhi cari, e affanni quel bel petto. Tir. E poſſibil però, che, s'ella un giorno Udiſſe tai parole, non t'amaſſe? Am. Non ſò n'el credo; mà fugge i miei detti Come l'aſpe l'incanto. Tir. Hor ti confida, Ch' à me dà il cuor di far, ch' ella t'aſcolti. Am. O nulla impetrerai, ò ſe tu impetri, Ch' io parli, io nulla impetrerò parlando. Tir. Perche diſperi sì? Am. Guiſta cagione Hò del mio diſperar; che il ſaggio Mopſo Mi prediſſe la mia cruda ventura, Mopſo, ch' intende il parlar de gli augelli, E la virtu de l'herbe, e de le fonti. Tir. Di qual Mopſo tu dici? di quel Mopſo, Ch' à ne la lingua, melate parole, E ne le labra un' amichvol ghigno, E la fraude nel ſeno, & il raſoio Tien ſotto il manto? Hor sù, ſtà di buon core, Che i ſciaurati pronoſtichi infelici, Ch' ei vende à mal' accorti, con quel grave Suo ſupercilio, non han mai effetto: E per prova sò io ciò, che ti dico; Anzi da queſto ſol, ch' ei t'hà predetto, Mi giova di ſperar felice fine A l'amor tuo. Am. Se ſai coſa per prova, Che conforti mia ſpeme, non tacerla. Tir. Dirollo volontieri, Allhor, che prima Mia ſorte mi conduſsè, in queſte ſelve, Coſtui conobbi, è lo ſtimava io tale, Qual tu lo ſtimi: in tanto un dì mi venne E biſogno, e talento d'irne dove Siede la grand Cittade in ripa al Fiume. Et â coſtui ne feci motto; & egli Così mi diſſe: andrai ne la gran Terra, Ove gli aſtuti, e ſcaltri Cittadini, E i Cortigian malvagi molte volte Prendenci à gabbo, e fanno brutti ſcherni Di noi Ruſtici incauti: però, Figlio, Và ſu l'auviſo, & non tappreſſar troppo Ove ſian drappi-colorati, e d'oro, E pennachi, e diviſe, e foggie nove: Mà ſopra tutto guarda, che mal Fato, O giovenil vaghezza non ti meni Al magazino de le ciancie. ah fuggi, Fuggi quell' incantato allogiamento. Che luogo è queſto? io chieſi: & ei ſoggiunſe, Quivi habitan le Maghe, che incantando Fan traveder, e traudir ciaſcuno, Ciò che diamante ſembra, & oro fino, E vetro, e rame: e quelle arche d'argento, Che ſtimereſti piene di theſoro; Sporte ſon piene di veſciche bugge; Quivi le mura ſon fatte con arte, Che parlano, e riſpondono à i parlanti; Ne già riſpondon la parola mozza, Com' Echo ſuole ne le noſtre ſelve; Mà la replican tutta intiera intiera, Con giunta anco di quel, ch' altri non diſſe. I treſpidi, le tavole; & le panche, Le ſcranne. le letiere, le cortine, E gli arneſi di camera, e di ſala, Han tutti lingua, e, voce; e gridan ſempre, Quivi, le ciancie in forma di Bambine, Vanno treſcando, e ſe un muto v'entraſſe, Un muto ciancerebbe à ſuo diſpetto. Mà queſto è'l minor mal, che ti poteſſe, Incontrar: tu potreſti indi reſtarne Converſo in ſalce, in acqua, ò in foco, Acqua di pianto, e foco di ſoſpiri. Così diſs' egli: & io n'andai con queſto Fallace antiveder ne la Cittade; 'Et, come volſe il Ciel benigno, à caſo Paſſai per la dov' e'l felice Albergo. Quindi uſcian fuor voci canore, e dolci, E di Cigni, e di Ninfe, e di Sirene; Di Sirene celeſti; e n'uſcian ſuoni Soavi, e chiari; e tanto altro diletto, Ch'attonito godendo, & ammirando Mi fermai buona pezza. Era sù l'uſcio, Quaſi per guardia de le coſe belle, Huom' d'aſpetto magnanimo, e robuſto, Di cui, per quanto inteſi, in dubbio ſtaſſi, S'egli ſia miglior Duce, ò Cavaliero; Che con fronte benigna inſieme, & grave, Con regal corteſia, invitò dentro, Ei grande e'n pregio, me negletto, e baſſo. O che ſentii? che vidi allhora? I vidi Celeſti Dee, Ninfe leggiadre, e belle; Novi lumi, & Orfei; & altre ancora Senza vel, ſenza nube, e quale, e quanta A gl' Immortali appar vergine Aurora Sparger d'argento, e d'or rugiade, e raggi; E fecondando illuminar d' intorno Vidi Febo, e le Muſe; e frà le Muſe Elpin ſeder accolto, & in quel punto Sentii me far di me ſteſſo maggiore; Pien di nova vertù; pieno di nova Deitade: e cantaì Guerre, & Heroi, Sdegnando paſtoral ruvido carme. E, ſe ben poi (come altrui piacque) feci Ritorno à queſte ſelve, io pur ritenni Parte di quello ſpirto; nì già ſuona La mia Sampogna humil come ſoleva; Mà di voce più altera, e più ſonora, Emula de le Trombe, empie le ſelve. Udimmi Mopſo poſcia; e con maligno Guardo mirando affaſcinommi; ond ìo Roco divenni, & poi gran tempo tacqui: Quando i Paſtor credean, ch' io foſſi ſtato Viſto dal Lupo; e'l Lupo era coſtui. Queſto t'hò detto, acciò che ſappi, quanto Il parlar di coſtui di fede è degno: E dei bene ſperar, ſol perche ei vuole Che nulla ſperi. Am. Piacemi d'udire Quanto mi narri, à te dunque rimetto La cura di mia vita. Tir. Io n'havrò cura. Tu frà mez'hora qui trovar ti laſſa.
SCENE the SECOND. Aminta. Thyrſis. AMINTA.

I have ſeen the Rocks and Waters compaſſionately reply to my Complaints, I have ſeen the Woods accompany my Complaints with ſighs: but I have never ſeen, nor hope to ſee Compaſſion in the cruel Fair, whom I know not whether to call Woman, or Brute; but ſhe denies herſelf to be a Woman, becauſe ſhe denies Compaſſion, where inanimate things have not denied it.

 Thyr.

The Lamb feeds on the Graſs, the Wolf on the Lambs; but cruel Love feeds on Tears, and never ſhews himſelf ſatisfied.

 Am.

Alas! Love is long ſince ſatisfied with my Tears, and now only thirſts after my Blood; and ſoon I am reſolv'd, that he, and that cruel Creature, ſhall drink my Blood with their Eyes.

 Thyr.

Ah Aminta!

Aminta, what are you talking? or why do you rave thus? comfort your ſelf now, for you will find another, if this cruel one diſdains you.

 Am.

Alas! how can I find another, if I cannot find my ſelf? if I have loſt my ſelf, what Acquiſition ſhall I ever make that can pleaſe me?

 Thyr.

Poor Man, never deſpair of gaining her. Length of Time has taught Men to Rein the Lions, and the Tygers of Arcania.

Am.

But an unhappy Wretch can't a long Time ſuſtain the Delay of his Death.

 Thyr.

The Delay will be ſhort: Woman is ſoon angry, and ſoon appeas'd, a Creature moveable by Nature, more than the ſlender Twig, or the pliant Ear of Corn before the Wind: but prithee, let me know ſomething farther of thy hard Condition, and thy Love: For though you have often confeſt to me that you were in Love, yet you never told me where you plac'd your Love: and our faithful Friendſhip, and our common ſtudy of the Muſes, deſerves that, what is conceal'd from others, ſhould be diſcover'd to me.

 Am.

I am content, Thyrſis, to tell you that, which the Woods, the Mountains, and the Rivers know, though 'tis unknown to Men: for I am now ſo near my Death, that there is good Reaſon, that I ſhou'd leave one behind who may relate the Cauſe of my Death, and engrave it on the Bark of a Beech-tree, near the place where my dead Body ſhall be buried: that the cruel Maid, when ſhe paſſes by, may take delight to trample my unhappy Bones with her proud Foot, and ſay within herſelf, Here lies my Triumph; and may rejoice to ſee, that her Victory is known to all our country Shepherds, and the Strangers, whom chance directs this way: and perhaps (alas my Hopes are too high) a Day may come, when ſhe, being mov'd with too late a pity, may lament him dead, whom living ſhe kill'd; and ſay; oh! were he here, and were he mine! Attend now.

 Thyr.

Go on then, for I am attentive, and perhaps to better purpoſe, than you imagine.

 Am.

While I was yet ſo young, that I could ſcarce reach with my little Hand to gather Fruit from the bending Boughs of the young Trees, I became acquainted with the moſt beautiful and deareſt Maid, that e'er diſplay'd her golden Hair to the Wind: know you the Daughter of Cidippa, and of Montanus, ſo wealthy in Cattle? Sylvia, the Honour of the Woods, the Paſſion of Souls; of her I ſpeak, Alas! I liv'd with her ſo united for ſometime, that between two Turtles there never will be, nor ever was a more faithful Alliance. Adjoining were our Habitations, but more adjoining our Hearts: alike were our Ages, but our Thoughts more alike: with her I us'd to ſpread the enſnaring Net for Fiſhes, and for Birds, and follow'd with her the Stags and ſwift Does; both our Diverſion and our Prey was common.

But whilſt I was making a Prey of Animals, I became, I know not how, a Prey my ſelf. By little and little there grew within my Breaſt, I know not from what Root, like an Herb that ſhoots out of it ſelf, a Paſſion I was unacquainted with before, which made me deſire to be always in the Preſence of my fair Sylvia, and I drank from her Eyes a ſtrange Sweetneſs, which left behind it in the end I know not what kind of Bitter: I ſigh'd often, and knew not the cauſe of my ſighing. Thus I became a Lover, Before I underſtood what kind of thing Love was. Too well I found what it was at laſt: and in what manner, now hear me, and obſerve.

 Thyr.

'Tis worth obſerving.

 Am.

In the ſhade of a beautiful Beech, Sylvia, and Phyllis ſate one Day, and I together with them; when an induſtrious Bee, which went to gather Honey in the flow'ry Meads, flying on the Cheeks of Phyllis, the Cheeks all Crimſon like the Roſe, ſtung them, and ſtung them again greedily; and perhaps, deceiv'd by the Reſemblance, took them for a Flower: Then Phyllis began to make her Moan, impatient of the acute Sting. But my beautiful Sylvia ſaid, peace Phyllis, ceaſe complaining, for I with Enchanting words can relieve the Anguiſh of the little Wound;

Sage Arteſia taught me this Secret ſome time ago, and had for her reward my Ivory Horn adorn'd with Gold. Thus ſaying, ſhe applied the Lips of her beautiful, and ſweeteſt Mouth to the wounded Cheek, and with a ſoft Whiſper murmur'd I know not what Verſes. O admirable Effects! ſhe preſently perceiv'd the Pain to ceaſe; whether it was the Virtue of thoſe magical Words, or, as I believe, the Virtue of that Mouth, which cures all that it touches. I, who till that Time deſir'd nothing, but the lovely Brightneſs of her beautiful Eyes, and her ſweet Speech, much more ſweet than the murmuring of a ſlow Rivulet, which breaks its way amongſt the little Rocks, or the whiſpering of the Air amongſt the Leaves; at that Time perceiv'd in my Heart a new deſire to preſs my Mouth to hers. And becoming, I know not how, cunning and ingenious more than uſual, (obſerve how Love ſharpens the Invention) bethought my ſelf of a pretty Deceit, by which I might accompliſh my Deſire: for pretending, that a Bee had ſtung my Under-lip, I begun to complain in ſuch manner, that I ask'd for that Remedy with my Looks, which my Tongue did not ask for. Harmleſs Sylvia, pitying my Pain, offer'd to give Relief to my feign'd Wound; and made, alas, my true one more deep and mortal, when her Lips were join'd to mine, nor did ever the Bee gather from any Flower Honey ſo ſweet, as I then gather'd from thoſe freſh Roſes; although my ardent Kiſſes, which Deſire excited to ſink deeper, Fear and Shame reſtrain'd, or made them more ſlow and leſs bold: but in the mean-while there glided to my Heart, a Sweetneſs mixt with a ſecret Poiſon: I felt ſuch delight in it, that pretending the Pain of the Sting was not yet ceas'd, I caus'd her often to repeat the Inchantment. From that Time my Deſire and my Grief grew impatient to ſuch a degree, that not being able to contain it any longer within my Breaſt, I was forc'd to give it vent: and one Time, as we were ſitting round together in a Circle, Nymphs and Shepherds, and were playing ſome of our Plays, where every one whiſpering in the Ear of his Neighbour, tells him ſome Secret, Sylvia, ſaid I to her, for you I burn, and ſhall certainly die unleſs you pity me. At thoſe Words ſhe caſt down her lovely Face, and over it there came a ſudden unuſual Redneſs, which gave a ſign of Modeſty and Anger; I had no other Anſwer, but Silence, a diſturb'd Silence, full of ſevere Threats: ſhe departed from thence, and ne'er would ſee, or hear me afterwards: and now thrice has the naked Reaper cut the Corn, as many Times has the Winter ſhaken the verdant Leaves from the Woods; and I have tried every thing to appeaſe her, beſides my Death. There remains only, now to appeaſe her, that I ſhould Die, and die I would willingly, were I but ſure, that ſhe would either be pleas'd, or griev'd at it; neither know I of theſe Two things which I ſhould rather wiſh. Pity would be indeed a greater Reward to my Fidelity, and a greater Recompence for my Death: but I ought not to wiſh for any thing, that may diſturb the ſerene Light of thoſe dear Eyes, and grieve that beautiful Breaſt.

 Thyr.

Is it poſſible then, that if ſhe ſhould one day hear ſuch words, ſhe ſhould not Love you?

 Am.

I know not, nor believe it; but ſhe flies my Words as the Adder flies from the Inchantment.

 Thyr.

Be of good Courage, for my Heart inclines me to bring it about that ſhe ſhall hear you.

 Am.

Either you will never prevail, or if you ſhould prevail that I ſhould ſpeak, I never ſhould prevail by ſpeaking.

 Thyr.

Why do you deſpair thus?

 Am.

I have juſt Cauſe of Deſpair, becauſe the ſage Mopſus foretold my hard Fortune; Mopſus who underſtands the Language of Birds, and the Virtue of Herbs, and Fountains.

 Thyr.

Of what Mopſus are you ſpeaking? of that Mopſus who has words of Honey on his Tongue, and a friendly Smile upon his Lips, but conceals Fraud within his Breaſt, and a Poignard underneath his Garment? be of good hope, for thoſe unhappy inauſpicious Prognoſticks, that he ſells to Fools, with that grave Look, will never take effect, this I know by Experience what I tell you; on the contrary, for this only Reaſon, becauſe he has foretold you, I take delight in hoping a happy end to thy Love.

 Am.

If you know any by Experience that comforts my Hope, don't conceal it.

 Thyr.

I'll tell it willingly at the Time, when firſt my Fortune brought me into theſe Woods, I knew that Man, and eſteem'd him ſuch a one as you now eſteem him; Inſomuch that it fell out one Day that I had ſome Buſineſs, and likewiſe a Mind to go where the Grand City ſtands on the Bank of the River; and I acquainted him with my deſign, and he thus told me, You are going into that great Town, where the crafty and deceitful Citizens, and the evilminded Courtiers often Scoff at, and make rude Sports with us ſimple Country Men. Therefore my Son be well advis'd, and don't intrude there where there are Colour'd and Gold Cloaths, Plumes, Devices, and new Faſhions: but above all take Care, leſt evil Deſtiny or the Jollity of Youth, ſhould lead thee into the Magazine of idle Chat. Fly, ah! fly that inchanted Place. What place is that ſaid I? and he anſwer'd: there live thoſe Magicians who by their Inchantments make every Body ſee and hear one thing for another: that which appears to be Diamonds, and fine Gold, is only Glaſs and Copper; and thoſe Silver Cheſts, which you would think to be full of Treaſure, are only Baskets full of empty Bladders. There the Walls are built with ſuch an Art, that they Speak and anſwer thoſe that ſpeak; they not only anſwer half a word, as Echo uſes to do in our Woods, but they reply it all intire, join'd with ſomething elſe that was not ſaid. The Tripods, Tables, Benches, Stools, Beds and Curtains, and the Furniture of the Chamber, and Hall, have all a Tongue, and a Voice, and are always Pratling. There falſe Lies leap ſporting about in the ſhape of Babes; and if a dumb Man ſhould enter, that dumb Man would Prate in ſpite of himſelf. But this is the leaſt Misfortune that can befall you, perhaps you may ſtay there Transform'd into a Willow-Tree, into Water, or Fire; the Water of Tears, or the Fire of Sighs. All this he told me, and I went with this falſe Forewarning to the City; and as kind Heaven and Fortune would have it, paſs'd by the place where ſtands that happy Dwelling. From whence iſſu'd out the ſweet and harmonious Muſick, of Swans, of Nymphs, and Syrens, celeſtial Syrens! from thence proceeded Sounds ſo ſweet and clear, and ſo many other Delights, that I ſtood ſtill a good while Aſtoniſh'd with Pleaſure and Admiration. There ſtood at the Door (as it were to Guard all thoſe fine Things) a Man of a ſtout and noble Aſpect, concerning whom, for what ſeem'd to me, I ſtood in doubt whether he would make a better General or a Soldier: This Man with Looks at the ſame Time kind and grave, and with Royal Courteſie invited me within, he a Man in great Office and Dignity, me a poor and homely Shepherd. Oh! what did I perceive, what ſaw I then! I ſaw celeſtial Goddeſſes, gay and beautiful Nymphs; new Stars, new Orpheus's, and others beſides, without a Veil or Cloud, ſuch and ſo great as the Virgin-Morn appears to the Immortals ſcattering her Silver Dews, and her Rays of Gold; I ſaw Phoebus ſhining all round with fruitful Light, and the Muſes, and Elpin ſitting among them; and in that Inſtant I perceiv'd my ſelf grown Greater than uſual, full of new Virtue, full of a new Deity: and I ſung of Wars, and Heroes, diſdaining the rude Paſtoral Verſe. And although for the Pleaſure of others I return'd to theſe Woods again, I ſtill retain'd Part of that Spirit: nor does my Pipe ſound as humble as before; but with a more loud and ſonorous Tone rivals the Trumpet, and fills the Woods. Afterward Mopſus heard me, and admiring with a malicious Look faſcinated me; from whence I became hoarſe and ſilent for a long Time: thence the Shepherds thought that I had been ſeen by a Wolf, and that Wolf was he. This I have told you, that you may know how much his words are worthy of Belief: And you ought to hope well, only becauſe he perſwades you not to hope at all.

 Am.

I am pleas'd to hear what you relate to me: to you then I entruſt the Care of my Life.

 Thyr.

I'll take the Care upon me: do you attend me here Half an Hour hence.
CHORO. O Bella età de l'oro. Non già perche di latte Sen' corſe il Fiume, e ſtillò mele il Boſco: Non perche is frutti loro Dier da l'aratro intatte Le terre, e gli angui errar ſenz' ira, ò toſco; Non perche nuvol foſco. Non ſpiegò allhor ſuo velo, Ma in primavera eterna, C'hora s'accende, e verna, Riſe di luce, e di ſereno il Cielo; Nè portò peregrino O guerra, ò merce, à gli altrui lidi il pino; Mà ſol perche quel vano Nome ſenza ſoggetto, Quell' Idolo d'errori, Idol d'inganno, Quel, che dal Volgo inſano Honor poſcia fu detto, (Che di noſtra natura'l feo tiranno) Non miſchiava il ſuo affanno Fra li liete dolcezze De l'amoroſo gregge; Ne fù ſua dura legge Nota à quell' alme in libertate auvezze: Mà legge aurea, e felice, Che Natura ſcolpì, S'ei piace, ei lice, Allhor trà, fiori, e linfe, Trahean dolci carole Gl' Amoretti ſenz' archi; e ſenza faci; Sedean Paſtori, e Ninfe, Meſchiando à le parole Vezzi, e ſuſurri, & à i ſuſurri i baci Strettamente tenaci; La Verginella ignude Scopria ſue freſche roſe: C'hor tien nel velo aſcoſe, E le poma del ſeno acerbe, e crude; E ſpeſſo in fonte, ò in lago Scherzar ſi vide con l'Amata il Vago. Tu prima, Honor, velaſti, La fonte de i diletti, Negando l'onde à l'amoroſa ſete. Tu à begli occhi inſegnaſti Di ſtarne in ſe riſtretti, E tener lor bellezze altrui ſecrete. Tu raccoglieſti in rete Le chiome à l'aura ſparte. Tu i dolci atti laſcivi Feſti ritroſi, & ſchivi, A i detti il frien poneſti, à i paſſi l'arte. Opra è tua ſola, ò Honore, Che furto ſia quel, che fu don d'Amore, E ſon tuoi fatti egregi Le pene, e i pianti noſtri Mà tu, d'Amore, e di Natura donno, Tu domator de' Regi, Che fai trà queſti chioſtri, Che la grandezza tua capir non ponno? Vattene, e turba il ſonno A gl' illuſtri, e potenti. Noi qui negletta, e baſſa Turba ſenza te laſſa Viver ne l'uſo de l'antiche genti. Amiam, che non hà tregua Con gli anni humana vita, e ſi delegua, Amiam, ch'l Sol ſi muore, e poi rinaſce: A noi ſua breve luce S'aſconde, e'l ſono eterna notte adduce.
CHORUS.

O Happy Age of Gold, not becauſe the Rivers ran with Milk, and Honey dropt from the Woods: not becauſe the Fields produced the Fruits untouch'd with the Plow, and Serpents wander'd without Wrath and Venom; not becauſe the black Cloud had not yet ſpread abroad its Veil, but the Heaven, which now glows with Heat, and freezes with Cold, ſmil'd with Light and Serenity in an eternal Spring; nor the foreign Pine, as yet carry'd War and Merchandiſe to diſtant Shores; but only, becauſe that empty Name without a Subſtance, that Idol of Error and Hypocriſy, which by the mad Vulgar was afterwards call'd Honour, which they made the Tyrant of our Nature, had not yet mingled its Diſquietude amongſt the ſweet Endearments of the amorous Train, and its hard Laws were not yet known to Souls accuſtom'd to Liberty: but only that Golden happy Law, which Nature made, if it pleaſes, 'tis Lawful. Then amongſt the Flowers and Streams, the little Loves led up their jocund Dances, without their Bows, and without their Torches: The Shepherds and Nymphs ſate together, mingling Whiſpers with their pretty Diſcourſes; and with their Whiſpers Kiſſes cloſely tenacious. The naked Maid diſplay'd her blooming Roſes, which ſhe now keeps conceal'd beneath the Veil; and the Apples of her Breaſt now bitter, and diſtaſteful; and often in a Fountain or a Lake, the loveful amorous Boy beheld himſelf wantonly playing with the Maid he lov'd. Thou, Honour, firſt didſt ſtop the Spring of Pleaſures, denying Water to the thirſt of Love: thou firſt didſt teach lovely Eyes to ſtand reſerv'd within themſelves, and keep their Beauty from all others ſecret: you firſt wove into a Net thoſe Hairs, that were before ſcatter'd looſely to the Wind: you made ſweet amorous Behaviour copy and diſdainful: you gave Words a Bridle, and to Steps an Art; Honour, 'tis thy doing, that, what was once the Gift of Love, is now the Theft. Our Pains and our Complaints are thy egregious Effects. But now, great Maſter of Love and Nature, thou Conquerour of Kings, what does thou do within theſe cloiſter'd Woods, which can't contain thy Grandeur? go hence and diſturb the Repoſe of the Illuſtrious and Powerful, and ſuffer us neglected humble Company, to live without thee after the manner of the Ancient Race of Men. Let us love, for the Life of Man has no Truce with Years, and is ſtill conſuming; let us love, for the Sun dies, and is born again; our ſhort Light ſets from us, and Sleep brings on eternal Night.
ATTO SECONDO. SCENA PRIMA. Satiro ſolo. PIcciola è l'Ape, e fà colpicciol morſo Pur gravi, e pur moleſte le ferite; Mà, qual coſa e più picciola d' Amore Se in ogni breve ſpatio entra, e s'aſconde In ogni breve ſpatio? hor, ſotto à l'ombra De le palpebre, hor trà minuti rivi D'un biondo crine, hor dentro le pozzette, Che forma un dolce riſo in bella guancia; E pur fà tanto grandi, e ſi mortali, E co • ì immedicabili le piaghe. Ohime, che tutte piaga, e tutte ſangue Son le viſcere mie; e mille ſpiedi Hà ne gli occhi di Silvia il crudo Amore. Crudel Amor, Silvia crudele, ed empia Più che le Selve. O'come à te confaſſi Tal nome: e quanto vide chi te'l poſe. Celan le Selve angui, Leoni, & Orſi Dentro il lor verde; tu dentro al bel petto, Naſcondi odio, diſdegno, & impietate, Fere peggior ch' angui, Leoni, & Orſi: Che ſi placano quei, queſti placarſi Non poſſono per prego, nè per dono. Ohime, quando ti porto i fior novelli, Tu li ricuſi, ritroſetta; forſe, Perche fior via più belli hai nel bel volto. Ohime, quando io ti porgo i vaghi pomi, Tu li rifiuti, diſdegnoſa; forſe Perche pomi più vaghi hai nel bel ſeno. Laſſo, quand io t'offriſco il dolce mele, Tu lo diſprezzi, diſpettoſa; forſe, Perche mel via più dolce hai ne le labra: Mà, ſe mia povertà non puo donarti Coſa, ch' in te non ſia piu bella, e dolce; Me medeſmo ti dono. Hor, perche iniqua Scherni, & abborri il dono? non ſon' io Da diſprezar, ſe ben me ſteſſo vidi Nel liquido del mar, quando l'altr' hieri Taceano i venti & ei giacea ſenz' onda. Queſta mia faccia di color ſanguigno; Queſte mie ſpalle larghe; e queſte braccia Toroſe, e nerborute; e queſto petto Setoſo; e queſte mie velate coſcie Son di virilità, di robuſtezza Indicio; e, ſe no'l credi, fanne prova. Che vuoi tu far di queſti tenerelli, Che di molle lanugine fiorite Hanno à pena le guancie, e che con arte Diſpongono i capilli in ordinanza? Femine nel ſembiante, e ne le forze Sono coſtoro; hor dì, ch' alcun ti ſegua Per le ſelve, e pe i monti e'ncontra gli Orſi, Et incontra i cinghiai per te combatta. Non ſono io brutto, nò, nè tu mi ſprezzi, Perche sì fatto io ſia, mà ſolamente. Perche povero ſono ahi; che le Ville Seguon l'eſſempio de le gran Cittadi; E veramente il ſecol d'oro è queſto, Poiche ſol vince l'oro, e regna l'oro. O' chiunquè tu foſti, che inſegnaſti Primo à vender l'amor, ſia maledetto Il tuo cener ſepolto, e l'oſſa fredde, E non ſi trovi mai Paſtore; ò Ninfa, Che lor dica paſſando, Habbiate Pace; Mà le bagni la pioggia, e mova il vento, E con piè immondo la Greggia il calpeſtri, E'l Peregrin. Tu prima ſvergognaſti La nobiltà d'amor; tu le ſue liete Dolcezze inamariſti. Amor venale, Amor ſervo de l'oro, è il maggior Moſtro, Et il più abominabile, e il più ſozzo, Che produca la terra, o'l mar frà l'onde. Ma, perche in van mi lagno? Uſa ciaſcuno Quell' armi, che gli hà date la Natura Per ſua ſalute. Il Cervo adopra il corſo, Il Leone gli attigli, & il bavoſo Cinghiale il dente: e ſon potenza, & armi De la Donna, Bellezza, e Leggiadria. Io, perche non per mia ſalute adopro La violenza, ſe mi fè Natura Atto à far violenza, & à rapire? Sforzero, rapirò quel che coſtei Mi niega, ingrata in merto de l'amore; Che, per quanto un Caprar teſtè mi hà detto, Chi oſſervato hà ſuo ſtile, ella hà per uſo D'andar ſovente à rifreſcarſi à un fonte: E moſtrato m'hà il loco, ivi io diſegno Trà i ceſpugli appiattarmi, e trà gli arbuſti, Et aſpettar ſin che vi venga: e, come Veggia l'occaſion, correrle adoſſo. Qual contraſto col corſo, ò con le braccia, Potrá fare una tenera Fanciulla Contra me, sì veloce, e sì poſſente? Pianga, e ſoſpiri pure, uſi ogni sforzo Di pietà, di bellezza: che, s'io poſſo Queſta mano rauvoglierle nel crine, Indi non partirà, ch' io pria non tinga L'armi mie per vendetta, nel ſuo ſangue.
ACT the SECOND. SCENE the FIRST. Satyr ſolus.

SMALL is the Bee, and makes with his ſmall Sting the moſt grievous and painful Wounds. But what Thing is ſmaller than Love? in every little Space he enters, and hides himſelf in every little Space. Sometimes under the Shade of an Eye-lid, ſometimes amongſt the little Curls of beautiful Hair, ſometimes within the Dimples, which a ſweet Smile forms in a lovely Cheek, and yet he makes ſo deep, ſo mortal and incurable Wounds. Alas! my Breaſt is all one bleeding Wound, and cruel Love hath a thouſand Darts in the Eyes of Sylvia. Cruel Love, Sylvia Cruel, and more Savage than the Woods. Oh! how does that Name agree with thee, how well did He foreſee, that gave it thee.

The Woods conceal Serpents, Lions, and Bears within their verdant Shades, and Thou within thy Lovely Breaſt concealeſt Hatred, Diſdain, and Cruelty; worſe Savages than Serpents, Lions, and Bears: Theſe may be tam'd, but Thoſe never can, either by Intreaties or Gifts. Alas! when I bring new-blown Flowers, thou refuſeſt them perverſe, perhaps, becauſe thou haſt Flowers more fair in thy lovely Face; Alas! when I preſent thee with beautiful Apples, thou refuſeſt them diſdainful, perhaps, becauſe thou haſt Apples more beautiful in thy lovely Boſom. Alas! when I offer thee delicious Honey, thou rejecteſt it ſcornful, perhaps, becauſe thou haſt Honey more delicious in thy Lips: But if my Poverty cannot give thee any thing, which is not lovelier and ſweeter in thy ſelf; myſelf I give thee, why do'ſt thou unjuſtly deſpiſe and abhor the Gift? I am not to be deſpis'd, if I ſaw myſelf aright in the liquid Mirror of the Sea, when the other Day the Winds were ſilent, and the Sea lay ſtill without Waves. This Face of mine of a ſanguine Colour, Theſe my large Shoulders, Theſe my brawny nervous Arms, This hairy Breaſt, and Theſe my ſhaggy Thighs, are Marks of Strength and Manhood; and if thou art incredulous, make Trial of it. What wilt thou do with thoſe tender Boys, who have the ſoft Down ſcarce ſpringing on their Cheeks, and who with Art diſpoſe their Hair in Order? theſe are Women in Shew and in their Strength; tell me, would any of theſe follow thee through the Woods and the Mountains, and fight by your ſide againſt Bears and Wild Boars. I am not Ugly, no, thou can'ſt never deſpiſe me, becauſe I am thus made, but only, becauſe I am Poor; Alas! that Country-Villages ſhould follow the Example of great Cities: and truly this is the Age of Gold, ſince Gold alone prevails, Gold only reigns. Oh! whoever thou wert, that taught us firſt to make a Sale of Love, accurs'd be thy buried Aſhes, and cold Bones, and may never be found a Shepherd or Nymph, who paſſing by, may ſay, Reſt ye in Peace: But may the Rain waſh them, and may the Wind toſs them, and may the Flocks and the Traveller trample them with unclean Feet. Thou firſt didſt ſhame the the Nobility of Love; Thou didſt imbitter all its pleaſant Sweets: Venal Love, Love, the Servant of Gold, is the greateſt, the moſt abominable and hideous Monſter, that e'er the Earth produc'd, or the Sea beneath its Waters. But why do I torment myſelf in vain? all Creatures make Uſe of thoſe Arms which Nature has given them for their Safety; the Stagg exerciſes his Speed, the Lion his Claws, and the foaming Boar his Tusks; and Beauty and Grace are the Power, and the Arms of a Woman. Why don't I, for my own Aſſiſtance, make Uſe of Violence, ſince Nature has made me fit to commit Violence, and to Raviſh; I'll force and raviſh that, which ſhe ungratefully denies me, as the Reward of my Love. For as a Goat-herd has inform'd me, who has been Eye-Witneſs, and obferv'd her Steps, ſhe's accuſtom'd to go often to refreſh herſelf at a Fountain, and he has ſhewn me the Place; There I deſign to hide myſelf amongſt the Buſhes and the Shrubs, and wait, till ſhe comes, and as I ſee an opportunity, ruſh out upon her; what Oppoſition, either by her Flight, or with her Arms, can a tender Maid make againſt me, ſo Swift and ſo Strong? let her then Weep and Sigh, and uſe all the Power of Intreaty and Beauty: if I can once wreath my Hand in her Hair, She ſhall not part from thence till I have bath'd, for my Revenge, my Arms in her Blood.
SCENA SECONDA. Dafne. Tirſi. Dafne. TIRSI, com'io t'hò detto, io m'er a accorta, Ch' Aminta amava Silvia: e Dio sù quanti Buoni officii n'hò fatti, e ſon per farli Tanto più volontier, quant' hor vi aggiungi Le tue preghiere: ma torrei, più toſto A domar un Giuvenco, un' Orſo, un Tigre, Che à domar una ſemplice Fanciulla, Fanciulla tanto ſciocca, quando bella, Che non s'auveggia ancor, come ſtan calde L'armi di ſua bellezza, e come acute; Mà, ridendo, e piangendo, uccida altrui, E l'uccida, e non ſappia di ferire. Tir. Mà, quale è così ſemplice Fanciulla, che, uſcita da le faſcie, non apprenda L'arte del parer bella, e del piacere? De l'uccider piacendo, e del ſapere Qual arme fera, e qual dia morte, e quale Sani, e ritorni in vita? Daf. Chi e'l Maſtro. Di cotant arte? Tir. Tu fingi, e mi tenti: Quel, che inſegna à gli Augelli il canto e'l volo, A' Peſci il nuoto, & a Montoni il cozzo, Al Toro uſar il corno, & al Pavone Spiegar la pompa de l'occhiute piume. Daf. Come hà nome'l gran Maſtro? Tir. Dafne hà nome. Daf. Lingua bugiarda! Tir. E perche? tu non ſei Atta a tener mille Fanciulle à ſcola? Benche, per dir il ver, non han biſogno Di Maeſtro: Maeſtra è la Natura, Mà la Madre, e la Balia, anco v'han parte. Daf. In ſomna, tu ſei goffo inſieme, e triſto. Hora, per dirti il ver, non mi riſolvo, Se Silvia è ſemplicetta, come pare A le parole, à gli atti. Hier vidi un ſegno, Che me ne mette in dubbio. Io la trovai Là preſſo la Cittade in quei gran prati, Ove fra ſtagni giace un' Iſoletta, Sovra eſſa un lago limpido, e tranquillo, Tutta pendente in atto, che parea Vagheggiar ſe medeſma, e'nſieme inſieme Chieder conſiglio à l'acque, in qual maniera Diſpor doveſſe in sù la fronte i crini, E ſovra i crini il velo, e ſovra'l velo I fior, che tenea in grembo; e ſpeſſo ſpeſſo Hor prendeva un liguſtro, hor una roſa E l'accoſtava al bel candido collo, A be guancie vermiglie, e de' colori Fea paragone; e poi, ſi come lieta De la vittoria, lampeggiava un riſo Che parea, che diceſſe; Io pur vi vinco, Nè porto voi per ornamento mio, Mà porto voi ſol per vergogna voſtra, Perche ſi veggia quanto mi cedete. Mà mentre ella s'ornava, e vagheggiava, Rivolſe gli occhi à caſo, e ſi fù accorta, Ch'io di lei m'era accorta, e vergognando Rizzoſſi toſto, e i fior laſciò cadere. In tanto io più ridea del ſuo roſſore; Ella più s'arroſſia del riſo mio; Mà perche accolta una parte de' crini, E l'altra haveva ſparſa, una, o due volte Con gli occhi al fonte conſiglier ricorſe, E ſi mirò quaſi di furto, pure Temendo, chi io nel ſuo guatar guataſſi: Et incolta ſi vide, e ſi compiacque, Perche bella ſi vide ancor che incolta, Io me n'auvidi, e tacqui. Tir. Tu mi narri Quel ch'io credeva à punto, hor non m'appoſi? Daf. Ben t'apponeſti: mà pur odo dire, Che non erano pria le Paſtorelle, Nè le Ninfe sì accorte, nè io tale Fui in mia fanciullezza. Il Mondo invecchia, E invecchiando intriſtiſce. Tir. Forſe allhora Non uſavan ſi ſpeſſo i Cittadini Ne le ſelve, e ne i campi, ne ſi ſpeſſo Le noſtre Foroſette haveano in uſo D'andare à la Cittade, hor ſon miſchiate Schiatte, e coſtumi. Mà laſciam da parte Queſti diſcorſi: hor non farai, ch' un giorno Silvia contenta ſia, che le ragioni Aminta, ò ſolo, ò almeno in tua preſenza? Daf. Non sò. Silvia è ritroſa fuor di modo. Tir. E coſtui riſpettoſo è fuor di modo. Daf. E ſpacciato un' Amante riſpettoſo; Conſiglial pur, che faccia altro meſtiero; Poich' egli è t'al: chi imparar vuol d'amare, Deſimpari il reſpetto; oſi, domandi, Solleciti, importuni, al fine involi: E, ſe queſto non baſta, anco rapiſca. Hor, non ſai tu, com' è fatta la Donna? Fugge, e fuggendo vuol, che altri la giunga; Niega, e negundo vuol, ch' altri ſi toglia; Pugna, e pugnando vuol, ch' altri la vinca. Vè, Tirſi, io parlo teco in confidenza; Non ridir, ch' io ciò dica, e ſovra tutto Non porlo in rime. tu ſai, s'io ſaprei Renderti poi per verſi altro, che verſi. Tir. Non hai cagion di ſoſpettar, ch' io dica Coſa giamai, che ſia contra tuo grado. Mà ti prego, ò mia Dafne, per la dolce Memoria di tua freſca giovanezza, Che tu m'aiti ad aitar Aminta Miſerel, che ſi muore. Daf. O' che gentile Scongiuro hà ritrovato queſto ſciocco Di rammentarmi la mia giovanezza, Il ben paſſato, e la preſente noia, Mà che vuoi tu, ch'io faccia? Tir. A te non manca Nè ſaper, nè conſiglio, baſta ſol, che Ti diſponga à voler. Daf. Hor sù dirotti, Debbiamo in breve andare Silvia, & io Al Fonte, che s'appella di Diana, Là dove à le dolci acque fà dolc' ombra Quel Platano, ch' invita al freſco ſeggio Le Ninfe Cacciatrici, ivi sò certo, Che tufferà le belle membra ignude. Tir. Mà che pero? Daf. Mà che pero? Da Intenditor, s' hai ſenno, tanto baſti. Tir. Intendo: mà non sò, s'egli havrà tanto poco D'ardir. Daf. S'ei non l'havra, ſtiaſi, & aſpetti, Ch'altri lui cerchi. Tir. Egli è ben tal, che'lmerta. Daf. Mà non vogliamo noi parlar alquanto Di te medeſimo? hor sù, Tirſi, non vuoi Tu inamorarti? ſei giouane ancora, Ne paſſi di quattr' anni il quinto luſtro, (Se ben ſouvienmi, quando eri fanciullo) Vuoi viver neghittoſo, e ſenza gioia? Che ſol amando huom sà, che ſia diletto. Tir. I diletti di Venere non laſcia L'huom, che ſchiva l'amor, mà coglie, e guſta Le dolcezze d' Amor ſenza l'amaro. Daf. Inſipido è quel dolce, che condito Non è di qualche amaro, e toſto ſatia. Tir. E' meglio ſatiarſi, ch' eſſer ſempre Famelico nel cibo, e dopo'l cibo. Daf. Mà non, se'l cibo ſi poſſede, e piace, E guſtato, à guſtar ſempre n'invoglia. Tir. Mà chi poſſede sì quel, che gli piace, Che l'habbia ſempre preſſo à la ſua fame? Daf. Mà chi ritrova il ben, s' egli no'l cerca? Tir. Periglioſo è cercar quel che trovato Traſtulla ſi, mà più tormenta aſſai Non ritrovato. Allhor vedraſſi Amante Tirſi mai più, ch'Amor nel ſeggio ſuo Non havra più nè pianti, nè ſoſpiri. A baſtanza hò già pianto, eſoſpirato, Faccia altri la ſua parte. Daf. Mà non hai Già goduto à baſtanza. Tir. Nè deſio Goder, ſe cost caro egli ſi compra. Daf. Sarà forza l'amar, ſe non fia voglia. Tir. Mà non ſi può sforzar chi ſtà lontano. Daf. Mà, chi lung' è d'Amor? Tir. Chi teme, e fugge. Daf. E che giova fuggir da lui, ch' hà l'ali? Tir. Amor naſcente hà corte l'ali, à pena Può sù tenerle, e non le ſpiega à volo. Daf. Pur non s'accorge l'huom, quand ei naſce E, quando l'huom ſe n'accorge, e grande, e vola. Tir. Non, s'altra volta naſcer non l'hà viſto. Daf. Vedrem, Tirſi, s'havrai lafuga à gli occhi, Come tu dici. io ti preteſto, poi Che fai del Corridore, e del Cerviero, Che, quando ti vedrò chieder aita, Non moverei, per aiutarti un paſſo, Un dito, un detto, una palpebra ſola. Tir. Crudel, daratti il cor vedermi morto? Se vuoi pur, ch'ami, ama tu me, facciamo L'amor d'accordo. Daf. Tu mi ſcherni, e forſe Non merti Amante così fatta, ahi, quanti N'inganna il viſo colorito, e liſcio. Tir. Non burlo io, nò, mà tu con tal preteſto Non acetti il mio amor, pur come è l'uſo Di tutte quante: mà ſe non mi vuoi, Viverò ſenza amor. Daf. Contento vivi Più che mai foſſi, ò Tirſi, in otio vivi, Che ne l'otio l'amor ſempre germoglia, Tir. O Dafne, à me queſt'otio hà fatto un Dio: Colui, che Dio quì può ſtimarſi; à cui Si paſcon gli ampi armenti, e l'ampie greggie Da l'uno, à l'altro mare, e per li lieti Colti di fecondiſſime campagne, E per gli alpeſtri doſſi d'Appennino. Egli mi diſſe, allhor, che ſuo mi fece, Tirſi, altri ſcacci i Luppi, e i Ladri, e guardi I miei murati ovili; altri comparta Le pene, e i premii à 'miei Miniſtri; & altri Paſca, e curi le greggi; altri conſervi Le lane, e'l latte; & altri le diſpenſi: Tu canta, horche se'n otio: ond' è ben giuſto Che non gli ſcherzi di terreno amore, Mà canti gli avi del mio vivo, e vero (Non sò, s'io 〈◊〉 mi chiami) Apollo, ò Giove, Che ne l'opre, e nel volto ambi ſomiglia, Gli avì piu degni di Satierno, ò Celo; Agreſte Muſa à regal merto: e pure Chiara, ò roca che ſuoni, ei non la ſprezza. Non canto lui, però che lui non poſſo Degnamante honorar ſe non tacendo, E riverendo: mà non fian giamai Gli altari ſuoi ſenza í miei fiori, e ſenza Soave fumo d'odorati incenſi, Et allhor queſta ſemplice, e devota Roligion mi ſi torr à dal core Che d'aria paſoer anſi in aria i Cervi, E che mutando i fiumi e letto, e corſo, Il Perſo boa la Sona, il Gallo il Tigre. Daf. O, tu vai alto: hor sù, diſcendi un poco Al propoſito noſtro. Tir. Il punto è queſto, Che tu in andando al Fontè con colei Cherchi d'intenerirla: & io frà tanto Procurerò, ch' Aminta là ne venga: Nè la mia forſe men difficil cura Sara di'queſta tua hor vanne. Daf. Io vado, Mà il propoſito noſtro altro intendeva. Se ben rauviſo di lontan la faccia, Aminta è quell, che di là ſpunta, è deſſo.
SCENE the SECOND. Daphne. Thyrſis. Daphne.

THYRSIS, as I have told you before, I have diſcover'd that Aminta loves Sylvia; and Heaven knows how many good Offices I have done for him, and will ſtill continue ſo to do, ſo much the more willingly, ſince You join in your Intreaties: But I would ſooner undertake to tame a Bull, a Bear, or a Tyger, than to tame a ſimple Girl, a Girl as ſilly, as ſhe is fair, who is not yet ſenſible, how burning and how ſharp are the Arms of her Beauty; but kills whether ſhe ſmiles, or weeps, and kills without knowing that ſhe has wounded.

 Thyr.

But where is there e'er ſo ſimple a Girl, who being out of her ſwadling Cloaths, underſtands not the Art to appear handſome, and to pleaſe? To kill by pleaſing, and to know what Arms wound and give Death, and what cure and reſtore to Life.

 Daph.

Who is the Maſter of this Mighty Art?

 Thyr.

You diſſemble only to try me. The ſame, that teaches Birds their Songs and Flight, that teaches Fiſhes to Swim, and Rams to Butt, the Bull to uſe his Horns, and the Peacock to ſpread abroad the Pomp of his many-Eyed Plumes.

 Daph.

What is the Name of that great Maſter?

 Thyr.

His name is Daphne.

Daph.

trifling Pratler!

 Thyr.

And why? are not you fit to keep a Thouſand Girls at School, tho' to ſay the Truth, they have no Need of a Maſter; Nature is their Teacher, tho' the Mother and Nurſe have a Part in it.

 Daph.

Truly I think you are Merry in the midſt of your Sadneſs. Now to tell you the Truth, I am not certain that Sylvia is that ſimple Girl, that ſhe appears to be by her Words and her Actions. Yeſterday I ſaw an Inſtance, which put me in doubt of it: I found her near the Town in thoſe large Meadows, where amidſt the ſtanding Waters lies a little Iſland, upon which there is a calm and clear Lake, hanging over in ſuch a Poſture, that ſhe ſeem'd to admire herſelf, and at the ſame Time to adviſe with the Water, in what Manner ſhe ought to diſpoſe her Hair upon her Fore-Head, and over her Hair her Veil, and over her Veil the Flowers, which ſhe held in her Lap; and often ſhe took, now a Bloſſom, then a Roſe, applied them to her beautiful white Neck, and Vermilion Cheeks, and made Compariſon of their Colours; and then, as if rejoycing at the Victory, ſhe burſt out into a Laughter, as if ſhe ſeem'd to ſay, I ſurpaſs you, neither do I wear you for my Ornament, but I wear you only for your own Shame, ſince it appears how much you yield to me. But while ſhe was adorning and admiring herſelf, by chance ſhe turn'd her Eyes, and perceiv'd, that ſhe was perceiv'd by me; ſhe ſoon bluſh'd for Shame, and drop'd her Flowers, the more I laugh'd at her Bluſhes, the more ſhe bluſh'd at my Laughing; but becauſe one Part of her Hair was bound up, and the other hanging looſe, ſhe once or twice turn'd her Eyes to conſult the Fountain and gaz'd, as it were by ſtealth, fearing leſt I ſhould look on her, whilſt ſhe look'd on herſelf; ſhe ſaw herſelf in her undreſs, and was pleas'd becauſe ſhe ſaw herſelf handſome e'en in her Undreſs: I perceiv'd it, and held my Tongue.

 Thyr.

You tell me exactly what I thought, now did not I gueſs right?

 Daph.

You gueſs'd right, but I dare ſay, that Shepherdeſſes and Nymphs were not ſo cunning heretofore, neither was I ſuch in my Youth; the World grows old, and as it grows old it grows worſe.

 Thyr.

Perhaps then the Citizens did not ſo much frequent the Woods and Fields, nor ſo often were our Country People accuſtom'd to go to the City. Now our Families and our Cuſtoms are mingled. But let us leave theſe Diſcourſes: Could not you bring it about, that one Day Sylvia ſhould permit Aminta to ſpeak to her, either alone, or at leaſt in your Preſence?

 Daph.

I can't tell, Sylvia is Coy out of Meaſure.

 Thyr.

And he out of Meaſure reſpectful.

 Daph.

A reſpectful Lover is undone; ſince he is ſuch, adviſe him to ſome other Employment. Whoe'er would learn to Love, let him unlearn Reſpect, let him Dare, Demand, Sollicite, Importune; in ſhort let him Steal, and if that is not ſufficient, let him Raviſh. Do not you know what is the Nature of a Woman? She flies, and flying wiſhes to be overtaken; ſhe denies and wiſhes, that what ſhe denies may be ſnatch'd from her; ſhe fights, and fighting wiſhes to be conquer'd. Thyrſis, I ſpeak this to you in Confidence, don't tell again what I have told you. But above all don't put it in Rhime, you know that I can recompence you for your Verſe with ſomething elſe beſide Verſe.

 Thyr.

You have no Reaſon to ſuſpect me of ever ſaying any Thing contrary to your Pleaſure. But I conjure you, dear Daphne, by the ſweet Memory of your blooming Youth, that you would aſſiſt me in helping Aminta, Poor Wretch, that is a dying!

 Daph.

Ah! what a gallant way of conjuring has the Fool deviſed, in reminding me of my Youth, my paſt Happineſs, and my preſent Trouble: But what would you have me do?

 Thyr.

You want neither Parts nor Contrivance, 'tis ſufficient, if you are but diſpoſed to be willing.

 Daph.

Well then I'll tell you, Sylvia and I ſhall ſhortly go to the Fountain of Diana, where the pleaſant Waters are overſhaded by that Plane-Tree, which invites the Nymphs, return'd from Hunting, to its ſweet Retreat, there I know certainly, ſhe will bath her naked lovely Limbs.

 Thyr.

But what of that?

 Daph.

What of that? Senſeleſs, dull Fellow, if thou haſt any Wit, that's enough.

 Thyr.

I underſtand you, but I can't tell, if he will be ſo bold.

 Daph.

If he will not, let him ſtay, and wait, till ſhe comes to court him.

 Thyr.

E'en that is no more, than what he deſerves.

 Daph.

Mayn't we now diſcourſe a little concerning your ſelf? What, Thyrſis, will you never become a Lover? You are yet young, and have not yet paſt your Nine and Twentieth Year, if I remember well your Infancy; will you thus continue to live in Indolence, and without Pleaſure? For 'tis only by Loving, that Man knows what Pleaſure is.

 Thyr.

That Man that avoids Love, does not leave the Delights of Venus, but culls, and taſtes the Sweets of Love, without the Bitter.

 Daph.

Inſipid is that Sweet, and ſoon Cloys, which is not ſeaſon'd with ſome Bitter.

 Thyr.

'Tis better to be Cloy'd, than to be Famiſh'd, both in Feeding, and after too.

 Daph.

Not if the Food be pleaſing and poſſeſt; and once taſted always invites to taſte.

 Thyr.

But who poſſeſſes that, which pleaſes him, ſo as to have it always ready, when Hunger craves?

 Daph.

But who can find that Good he never ſeeks?

 Thyr.

'Tis dangerous to ſeek that, which once found, pleaſes a little; but not found, torments much more. Thyrſis ſhall be no more a Lover, till Love ſhall have no more Tears and Sighs in his Empire; I have wept and ſigh'd ſufficiently already, let others take their Turn.

 Daph.

But you have not been pleas'd ſufficiently.

 Thyr.

Neither do I deſire to be pleas'd, if Pleaſure coſts ſo dear.

 Daph.

Love will be forc'd upon you, whether you will or no.

 Thyr.

He never can be forc'd, that keeps far off.

 Daph.

Who keeps far off from Love?

 Thyr.

He that fears and flies.

 Daph.

To what purpoſe is it to fly from him, that has Wings?

 Thyr.

Love, when new born, has but ſhort Wings, 'tis as much as he can do to bear them, and he can't ſpread them to fly.

 Da.

A Man does not perceive when he is born, and when a Man perceives him, he is grown big and able to fly.

 Thyr.

True, if he never felt him grow before.

 Daph.

We ſhall ſee, Thyrſis, if your Eyes can avoid him, as you ſay. But I proteſt, ſince you pretend to be ſo ſwift a flyer, that when I ſhall ſee you asking for Help, I won't move one Step to aſſiſt you, one Finger, one Word, no not ſo much as one Eye-brow.

 Thyr.

Cruel! would your Heart give you to ſee me die? if you would have me love, do you love me, let us make love by Conſent.

 Daph.

You jeer me, perhaps you don't deſerve ſuch a Miſtreſs, as I am; Alas! how many has a painted artificial Face deceiv'd.

 Thyr.

I don't jeſt, no, but by ſuch Proteſtations as you have made, you don't accept of my Love, as the Manner is of all you Women, but if you won't have me, I'll live without Love.

 Daph.

Live more content, than ever you have done, Thyrſis, Live in Eaſe, for Eaſe always engenders Love.

 Thyr.

O Daphne, a God has given me this Eaſe, he, who may be eſteem'd a God here, whoſe ample Herds and numerous Flocks feed from the one to the other Sea, upon the fair Paſtures of the moſt fruitful Fields, and the craggy Backs of the Apennines. He ſaid to me then, when he made me his: Thyrſis, let others chace the Wolf and Thieves, and watch my walled Sheep-Folds, let others diſpenſe Puniſhments or Rewards to my Servants, and let others feed, and tend my Flocks, let others keep the Wool and Milk, and others diſpoſe of them: do you ſing in the Enjoyment of your Faſe; hence 'tis but juſt, that my Muſe ſhould ſing, not the looſe Strain of Earthly Love, but the Anceſtors of my living and true God, whom I know not whether to call Apollo or Jove, for in his Actions and his Looks he reſembles them both, Anceſtors more worthy than Saturn or Coelus, too mean a Muſe to ſing a Prince's Worth, yet whether clear or hoarſe ſhe ſounds, he does not deſpiſe her. I do not ſing him, becauſe I am not able to do him worthy Honours, but by Silence and Adoration: But may his Altars never be without my Flowers, and without the ſweet Smoke of Odoriferous Incenſe, and then only ſhall this ſimple and devout Religion leave my Heart, when in the Air the Stags ſhall feed on the Wind, when Rivers ſhall change their Bed and Courſe, the Perſian ſhall drink the Sone, and the Gaul the Tigris.

Daph.

Oh! you are upon the high Strain; prithee deſcend a little to our Purpoſe.

 Thyr.

Here lies the Point, that as you are going to the Fountain with her, you endeavour to ſoften her; I, in the mean while, will take Care, that Aminta ſhall repair thither, and perhaps my Task will be no leſs difficult, than yours; go then:

 Daph.

I am going, but I meant our other Purpoſe.

 Thyr.

If I well diſcern that Face at a Diſtance, that's Aminta, that's coming yonder, 'tis the ſame.
SCENA TERZA. Aminta. Tirſi. Am. VOrrò veder ciò che Tirſi havrà fatto; E, s'havrà fatto nulla, Prima ch' io vada in nulla, Uccider vò me ſteſſo, inanzi à gli occhi De la crudel Fanciulla. A lei, cui tanto piace La piaga del mio core, Colpo de' ſuoi begli occhi, Altrettanto piacer devrà per certo La piaga del mio petto, Colpo de la mia mano. Tir. Nove, Aminta, t'annoncio di conforte; Laſcia homai queſto tanto lamentarti. Am. Ohime, che di? che porte, O' la vita, ò la morte? Porto ſalute, e vita; s'ardirai Di farti loro incontra: mà fa d'huopo D'eſſer un huom, Aminta, un' huom' ardito. Am. Qual ardir mi beſogna, e'ncontra à cui? Tir. Se la tua Donna foſſe in mez' un boſco Che, cinto intorno d'altiſſime rupi, Deſſe albergo à le Tigri, & à Leoni; V'andreſti tu? Am. V'andrei ſicuro, e baldo, Più che di feſta Villanella al ballo. Tir. E s'ella foſſe tra ladroni, & armi; V'andreſti tu? Am. V'andrei più lieto, e pronto, Che l'aſſetato Cervo à la fontana. Tir. Biſogni à maggior prova ardir più grande. Am. Andrò per mezò i rapidi torrenti, Quando la neve ſi diſcioglie, e gonfi Li manda al mare: andrò per mezo'l foco, E ne l'Inferno, quando ella vi fia, S'eſſer può Inferno, ov' è coſa sì bella. Hor sù ſcuoprimi il tutto. Tir. Odi. Am. Dì toſto. Tir. Silviat' attende à un fonte, ignuda, e ſola: Ardirai tu d'andarvi? Am. Oh, che mi dici? Silvia m'attende ignuda, e ſola? Tir. Sola, Se non quanto v'e Dafne, ch' è per noi. Am. Ignuda ella m'aſpetta? Tir. Ignada: mà. Am. Ohime, che mà! tu taci, tu m'uccide, Tir. Mà non sà già, che tu v'habbi d'andare. Am. Dura concluſion, che tutte attoſca Le dolcezze paſſate hor, con qual' arte, Crudel, tu mi tormenti? Poco dunque ti pare, Che infelice io ſia; Che à creſcer vieni la miſeria mia? Tir. S' à mio ſenno farai, ſarai felice. Am. E che conſigli? Tir. Che tu prenda quello, Che la fortuna amica t'appreſenta. Am. Tolga Dio, che mai faccia Coſa, che le diſpiaccia. Coſa io non feci mai, che le ſpiaceſſe Fuor che l'amarla: e queſto à me fù forza, Forza di ſua bellezza, e non mia colpa Non ſarà dunque ver, ch' in quanto in poſſo Non cerchi compiacerla. Tir. Hormai riſpondi. Se foſſe in tuo poter di non amarla, Laſciareſti d'amarla, per piacerle? Am. Nè queſto mi conſente Amor, ch' io dica, Nè ch' imagini pur d'haver gia mai A laſciar il ſuo amor, bench' io poteſſi. Tir. Dunque tu l'amereſti al ſuo diſpetto, Quando poteſſi far di non amarla? Am. Al ſuo diſpetto nò, ma l'amerei. Tir. Dunque fuor di ſua voglia? Am. Sì per certo. Tir. Perche dunque non oſi oltra ſua voglia Prenderne quel, che, ſe ben grava in prima, Al fin, al fin le ſara caro, e dolce, Che l'habbi preſo? Am. Ahi, Tirſi, Amor riſponda Per me; che, quanto à mez' il cor mi parla, Non sò ridir: tu troppo ſcaltro ſei Già per lungo uſo à ragionar d'amore: A me lega la lingua Quel, che mi lega il core. Tir. Dunque andar non vogliamo? Am. Andare io voglio. Mà non dove tu ſtimi. Tir. E dove? Am. A morte; S'altro in mio prò non hai fatto, che quanto Hora mi narri. Tir. E poco parti queſto? Credi tu dunque, ſciocco, che mai Dafue Conſiglioſſe l'andar, ſe non vedeſſe In parte il cor di Silvia? e forſe ch'ella Il sà, nè però vuol, ch' altri riſappia, Ch' ella ciò ſappia. hor se'l conſenſo eſpreſſo Cerchi di lei, non vedi, che tu cerchi Quel che più le diſpiace? hor dove è dunque Queſto tuo diſiderio di piacerle? E, s'ella vuol, che'l tuo diletto ſia Tuo furto ò tua rapina, e non ſuo done, Nè ſua mercede; à te, folle, che importa Più l'un modo, che l'altro? Am. E chi m'accerta, Che il ſuo deſir ſia tale? Tir. O' mentecatto, Ecco, tu chiedi pur quella certezza, Ch' a lei diſpiace, e diſpiacer le deve Dirittamente, e tu cercar non dei. Mà, chi t'accerta ancor, che non ſia tale? Hor s'ella foſſe tale? e non v'andaſſi? Eguale è il dubbio, e'l riſchio. ahi, pur è meglio Come ardito morir, che come vile. Tu taci: tu ſei vinto. hora confeſſa Queſta perdita tua, che fia eagione Di vittoria maggiore. andianne. Am. Aſpeita. Tir. Che, aſpetta? non ſai ben, che' l'tempofugge? Am. Deh, penſiam pria, ſe ciò dee farſi, e come. Tir. Per ſtrada penſerem ciò che vi reſta: Mà nulla fa, chi troppe coſe penſa.
SCENE the THIRD. Aminta. Thyrſis. Am.

NOW I ſhall ſee what Thyrſis has done for me, and if he has done nothing, before I pine away into nothing, I'll kill myſelf before the Eyes of the Cruel Maid. She, who is ſo well pleas'd at the Wound of my Heart, ſtruck by her beautiful Eyes, will certainly be pleas'd no leſs at the Wound of my Breaſt, ſtruck by my own Hand.

 Th.

Aminta, I bring you News of Comfort, ceaſe henceforth your heavy Complaints.

 Am.

Ah! what do you ſay? do you bring me Life or Death?

 Thyr.

I bring you Health and Life, if you dare meet them: But you muſt be a Man, Aminta, a Man of Courage.

 Am.

What Courage have I need of, and whom muſt I encounter?

 Thyr.

Suppoſe your Miſtreſs was in the midſt of a Wood, which, begirt around with lofty Rocks, was the Receptacle of Tygers and Lions: would you go thither?

 Am.

I would go more ſecure and cheerful, than a Country Laſs to a Dancing on a Holy-day.

 Thyr.

Were ſhe among a Troop of arm'd Thieves, would you go thither?

 Am.

I would go more willing, and ready, than the thirſty Stag to the Fountain.

 Thyr.

A harder Task requires a greater Courage.

 Am.

I would go through the Midſt of rapid Torrents, when the Snow diſſolves, and ſends them ſwelling to the Sea, I would go through the Midſt of Fire, and into Hell itſelf, were ſhe but there, if that can be an Hell, which contains ſo beautiful a Creature. But prithee tell me all.

 Thyr.

Hear then.

 Am.

Tell me quickly.

 Thyr.

Sylvia waits your coming at a Fountain naked and alone, dare you go thither?

 Am.

Ah! what do you tell me? Sylvia waits for me naked and alone?

 Thyr.

Yes alone, only perhaps Daphne is with her, who is in our Intereſt.

 Am.

She waits for me naked!

 Thyr.

Naked: But,

 Am.

Alas! but what? you kill me with your ſilence.

 Thyr.

But ſhe does not know, that you are to come There.

 Am.

Ah bitter Concluſion! which poiſons all the ſweets, that went before. With how much Art do you torment me, cruel Man? is it not enough for you that I am unhappy, that you come thus to increaſe my Miſery?

 Thyr.

If you will be ruled by me, you ſhall be happy.

 Am.

What do you adviſe me?

 Thyr.

To embrace the Opportunity, which kind Fortune preſents.

 Am.

Heaven forbid, that ever I ſhould do any thing to diſpleaſe her: I have never done any thing yet to diſpleaſe her, beſides loving her, and that was not my Fault, but was forc'd from me by her Beauty; it ſhall never be ſaid, but that I ſeek to pleaſe her to the utmoſt of my Power.

 Thyr.

Anſwer me now, if it were in your Power not to love her, would you ceaſe to love her, in order to pleaſe her?

 Am.

My Love will never allow me to ſay or ever Imagine, that I ſhould ceaſe to love her, though it were in my Power.

 Thyr.

You then would love her in ſpight of her, when it was in your Power to help loving her?

 Am.

In ſpight of her! no, but I would love her.

 Thyr.

Whether ſhe would or no?

 Am.

Yes, certainly.

 Thyr.

Why then dare you not take, againſt her Will, that, which though it grieves her at firſt, will delight and pleaſe her in the End, becauſe 'twas taken?

 Am.

Alas! Thyrſis, let Love anſwer for me, for I cannot repeat, what he ſpeaks in my Breaſt, you are too ſubtle for me by your long Uſe in reaſoning of Love; he who bound my Heart, alſo ties my Tongue.

 Thyr.

Muſt not we go then?

 Am.

I'll go, but not where you think.

 Thyr.

Where then?

 Am.

To Death, if you have done no more for me than what you tell me now.

 Thyr.

Do you reckon this ſo little then? do you imagine, you Simpleton, that Daphne would ever have advis'd you to go, if ſhe had not partly diſcover'd Sylvia's Heart, and perhaps ſhe knows of your coming, and yet is unwilling that any one elſe ſhould know, that ſhe knows it: now if you deſire an expreſs Conſent from her, don't you perceive, that you deſire a Thing that would diſpleaſe her moſt? What then is become of your Endeavour to pleaſe her? and if ſhe has a mind that your Delight ſhould be your own Theft or Robbery, and not her Gift or Reward, what ſignifies it to you, Fool, more one way than the other.

 Am.

But how ſhall I be ſure that this is her Deſire.

 Thyr.

Look ye now, you Fool, you are requiring that Certainty, which directly diſpleaſes her, and ought to diſpleaſe her; but what Certainty can you have, that this is not her Deſire? now if it was, and you did not go, the Doubt and the Danger are equal. Yet it is better to die like a Brave Man, than a Coward. You are mute, you are overcome, confeſs now your Defeat, which may prove the Occaſion of a greater Victory: come let us go.

 Am.

Stay.

 Thyr.

Stay for what? don't you conſider, that Time runs away?

 Am.

Pray let us think firſt, what and how to do.

 Thyr.

We'll think of the Reſt by the Way: He does no Buſineſs that thinks too much.
CHORO. AMORE, in quale ſcola, Da qual Maſtro s'apprende La tua sì lunga, e dubbia arte d'amare? Chi n'inſegna à ſpiegare Ciò che la mente intende, Mentre con l'ali tue ſovra il ciel vola? Non già la dotta Athene, Ne' l'Licio nel dimoſtra Non Febo in Helicona, Che sì d'amor ragiona, Come colà s' impara; Freddo ne par la, e poco; Non ha voce di foco, Come à te ſi conviene; Non alza i ſuoi penſieri A par de' tuoi miſteri. Amor, degno Maeſtro Sol tu ſei di te ſteſſo: E ſol tu ſei da te medeſmo eſpreſſo. Tu di legger inſegni A i piu ruſtici Ingegni Quelle mirabil coſe, Che con lettre amoroſe Scrivi di propria man ne gli occhi altrui: Tu in bei facondi detti Sciogli la lingua de Fedeli tuoi; Eſpeſſo (ò ſtrana, e nova Eloquenza d'Amore) Speſſo in un dir confuſo, E'n parole interotte Meglio ſi eſprime il core; E più par, che ſi mova, Che non ſi fà con voci adorne, e dotte, E'l ſilentio ancor ſuole Haver prieghì, e parole. Amor, leggan pur gli altri Le Socratiche carte, Ch' io in due begl' occhi apprenderò queſt' arte: E perderan le Rime De le penne più ſaggie Appò le mie ſelvaggie, Che roza mano in roza ſcorza imprime.
CHORUS.

LOVE! In what School, of what Maſter, is to be learnt, thy ſo long and doubtful Art of Loving? which teaches to expreſs what ever the Mind intends, while on thy Wings it ſoars above Heaven. Not learned Athens; nor can the Licoeum teach it. Phoebus in Helicon, who ſpeaks ſo much of Love, can't ſhew us how it is to be learnt there. He ſpeaks too coldly, and too little, he has not that Voice of Fire which befits you. He does not exalt his Thoughts to the Height of thy Myſteries. Love! Thou only art a Maſter worthy of thy ſelf, and by thy ſelf only can'ſt be expreſs'd. You inſtruct the moſt ruſtick Wits to read thoſe admirable Things, which in amorous Letters you write with your own Hand in the Eyes of others. You let looſe the Tongue of your Votaries in beautiful and eloquent Diſcourſes, and oftentimes (O ſtrange and new Eloquence of Love!) often by a confus'd Speech, and interrupted Words, the Heart better expreſſes it ſelf, and ſeems more to be moved, than by a poliſh'd and learn'd Harangue. And ſometimes even Silence itſelf intreats and ſpeaks. Love! Let others read the Socratick Writings; for my part, in a Pair of fair Eyes I'll learn this Art; and the Verſes of the moſt learned Pens ſhall yield to thoſe Sylvan Lays, which my rude, artleſs Hand engraves on the Bark of a Tree.
ATTO TERZO. SCENA PRIMA. Tirſi. Choro. Tir. OCrudeltate eſtrema, ò ingrato core, O' Donna ingrata, ò tre ſtate, e quattro Ingratiſſimo ſeſſo! e tu Natura, Negligente Maeſtra, perche, ſolo A le Donne nel volto, e in quel di fuori Poneſti quanto in loro è di gentile, Di manſueto, e di corteſe; e tutte L'altre parti obliaſti? ahi, miſerello, Forſe ha ſe ſteſſo ucciſo: ei non appare: Io l'hò cerco, e ricerco homai tre hore Nel loco, ov'io il laſciaì, e ne i contorni; Nè trovo lui, nè orme de' ſuoi paſſi. Ahi, che s' è certo ucciſo. Io vò novella Chiederne à que' Paſtor, che colà veggio. Amici, havete viſto Aminta, ò inteſo Novella di lui forſe? Cho. Tu mi pari Così turbato: e qual cagion t' affanna? Ond' è queſto ſudor, e queſto anſare? Hauvi nulla di mal? fà, che'l ſappiamo. Tir. Temo del mal d'Aminta; havetel viſto? Cho. Noi viſto non l'habbiam, dapoi che teco Buona pezza partì; mà, che ne temi? Tir. Ch' egli non s'habbia ucciſo di ſua mano. Cho. Ucciſo di ſua mano! hor, perche queſto? Che ne ſtimi cagione? Tir. Odio, & Amore. Cho. Duo potenti inimici, inſieme aggiunti, Che far non ponno? mà parla più chiaro. Tir. L'amar troppo una Ninfa, e l'eſſer troppo Odiato da lei. Ch. Deh, narra il tutto: Queſto è luogo di paſſo, e forſe intanto Alcun verrà, che nova di lui rechi, Forſe arrivar potrebbe anch' egli ſteſſo. Tir. Dirollo volentier, che non è giuſto, Che tanta ingratitudine, e sì ſtrana Senza l'infamia debita ſi reſti: Preſentito havea Aminta (ed io fui, laſſo, Colui, che riferillo, che'l conduſſi, Hor mene pento) che Silvia dovea Con Dafne ire à lavarſi ad una fonte, Là dunque s'inviò dubbio, ed incerto, Meſſo, non dal ſuo cor, mà ſol dal mio Stimolar importuno, eſpeſſo in forſe Fù di tornar indietro, ed io'l ſoſpinſi Pur mal ſuo grado inanzi. Hor, quando homai C'era il fonte vicino, ecco ſentiamo Un feminil lamento, e quaſi à un tempo Dafne veggiam, che battea palma à palma, La qual come ci vidde, alzò la voce: Ah correte, gridò: Silvia è sforzata: L'inamorato Aminta, che ciò inteſe, Si ſpiccò com' un Pardo, ed io ſeguillo, Ecco miriamo ad un' arbore legata La Giovinetta ignuda come nacque, E à legarla fune era il ſuo crine: Il ſuo crine medeſimo in mille nodi A la pianta era avuolto, e'l ſuo bel cinto, Che del ſen virginal fù pria cuſtode, Di quello ſtupro era miniſtro, ed ambe Le mani al duro tronco le ſtringea; E la pianta medeſma havea preſtati Legami contra lei, ch' una ritorta D'un pieghevole ramo havea ciaſcuna De le tenere gambe. A fronte, à fronte Un Satiro villan noi le vedemmo, Che di legarla pur allhor finia. Ella quanto potea, faceva ſchermo; Mà, che potuto havrebbe a lungo andare? Aminta con un dardo, che tenea Ne la man deſtra, al Satiro auventoſſi Come un Leone, ed io frà tanto pieno M'havea di ſaſſi il grembo, onde fugiſſi: Come la fuga de l'altro conceſſe Spatio à lui di mirare, egli rivolſe I cupidi occhi in quelle membra belle, Che, come ſuole tremolare il latte Ne' giunchi, ſi parean morbide, e bianche, E tutto'l vidi sfavillar nel viſo; Poſcia accoſtoſſi pianamente à lei Tutto modeſto, e diſſe: O bella Silvia, Perdona à queſta man, ſe troppo ardire E l'appreſſarſi à le tue dolci membra, Perche neceſſità dura le sforza; Neceſſità di ſcioglier queſti nodi; Nè queſta gratia, che fortuna vuole Conceder loro, tuo mal grado ſia. Ch. Parole d'ammollir un cor di ſaſſo. Mà che riſpoſe allhor? Tir. Nulla riſpoſe, Mà diſdegnoſa, e vergognoſa, à terra Chinava il viſo, e'l delicato ſeno, Quanto potea torcendoſi, celava. Egli, fattoſi inanzi, il biondo crine Comminciò a ſviluppare, e diſſe in tanto: Già di nodi sì bei non era degno Così ruvido tronco, hor, che vantaggio Hanno i Servid' Amor, ſe lor commune E con le piante il pretioſo laccio? Pianta crudel, poteſti quel bel crine Offender tu, ch'a te feo tanto honore? Quinci con le ſue man le man le ſciolſe In modo tal, che parea, che temeſſe Pur di toccarle, e deſiaſſe inſieme, Si chinò poi, per iſlegarle i piedi. Mà come Silvia in libertà le mani Si vide, diſſe in atto diſpettoſo: Paſtor, non mi toccar, ſon di Diana: Per me ſteſſa ſaprò ſciogliermi i piedi. Ch. Hor tanto orgoglio alberga in cor di Ninfa? Ahi, d'opra gratioſa ingrato merto. Tir. Ei ſi traſſe in diſparte riverente, Non alzando pur gli occhi per mirarla, Negando à ſe medeſmo il ſuo piacere, Per torre à lei fatica di negarlo. Io che m'era naſcoſo, e vedea il tutto, Ed udia il tutto, allhor fui per gridare, Pur mi ritenni. Hor odi ſtrana coſa, Doppo molta fatica ella ſi ſciolſe, E ſciolta à pena, ſenza dire Adio, A fuggir commincio com' una Cerva, E pur nulla cagione havea di tema, Che l' era noto il reſpetto d' Aminta. Ch. Perche dunque fuggiſſi? Tir. A la ſua fuga Volſe l' obligo haver, non à l'altrui Modeſto amore. Ch. Ed in queſt' anco è ingrata. Mà che fe'l miſerello allhor? che diſſe? Tir. No 'l sò, ch'io, pien di mal talento, corſi Per arrivarla, e ritenerla, e'n vano, Ch'io la ſmarrii, e poi tornando dove Laſciai Aminta al fonte, no'l trovai: Mà preſago è il mio cor di qualche male. Sò ch'egli era diſpoſto di morire, Prima che ciò auveniſſe. Ch. E uſo, ed arte Di ciaſcun, ch' ama minacciarſi morte; Mà rade volte poi ſegue l'effetto. Tir. Dio faccia, ch'ei non ſia trà queſti rari. Ch. Non ſarà no. Tir. Io voglio irmene à l'antro Del ſaggio Elpino, ivi s'è vivo, forſe Sarà ridotto, ove ſovente ſuole Raddolcir gli amariſſimi martiri Al dolce ſuon de la Sampogna chiara, Ch' ad udir trahe da gli alti monti i ſaſſi, E correr fà di puro latte i fiumi, E ſtillar mele da le dure ſcorze.
ACT the THIRD. SCENE the FIRST. Thyrſis. Chorus. Thyr.

O Extreme Cruelty! O ungrateful Heart! O ungrateful Maid! O Thrice and more ungrateful Sex; and you, Nature, negligent Miſtreſs! wherefore have you plac'd in the Face, and the Out-ſide of Women, all that is gentle, kind, and courteous in them, and have quite forgot the other Part? Alas! the miſerable Wretch has perhaps kill'd himſelf: he is not to be found; I have been ſeeking him again and again, for theſe three Hours, in the Place where I left him, and all thereabouts, I can neither find him, nor the Trace of his Footſteps; alas! he has certainly killed himſelf. I'll go and ask Tidings of him of thoſe Shepherds that I ſee yonder. Friends! Have ye ſeen Aminta, or heard by chance any Tidings of him?

 Ch.

You appear to me ſomewhat diſturb'd: what is the Occaſion of your Uneaſineſs? whence proceed that Sweat and Haſte of yours? has any Misfortune befallen you? let us know it.

 Thyr.

I fear ſome Misfortune has befallen Aminta, have you ſeen him?

 Cho.

We have not ſeen him, ſince he went away with you a good while ago; but what is your Fear for him?

 Thyr.

That he has kill'd himſelf with his own Hand.

 Ch.

Kill'd himſelf, for what? what do you gueſs to be the Reaſon of it?

 Thyr.

Hatred and Love.

 Ch.

What can't Two ſuch powerful Enemies do, when join'd together? But ſpeak more clearly.

 Thyr.

Loving a Nymph too well, and being too much Hated by her.

 Cho.

Pray tell us the whole: this Place is a common Path, perhaps in the mean while you'll ſee ſomebody, who may tell you ſome News of him, or perhaps he may come hither himſelf.

 Thyr.

I will tell you willingly, for 'tis not Juſt that ſo great and ſo ſtrange Ingratitude ſhould go without its deſerv'd Infamy. Aminta was inform'd (and I, alas! was the Perſon that told him and conducted him, which now I repent of) that Sylvia was to go with Daphne to Bath herſelf at a Fountain: Thither he went doubtful and uncertain, not from the Motion of his own Mind, but only through my importunate Encouragment, and was often in ſuſpence, whether he ſhould turn back, and I ſtill urged his going forward: Now when we approach'd the Fountain, we heard the Lamentation of a Woman; and as it were at the ſame Time we ſaw Daphne, ſtriking her Hands one againſt another, who ſeeing us, rais'd her Voice, and cried, Ah! Run, Sylvia is Raviſh'd. The inamour'd Aminta hearing this, flew like a Leopard, and I follow'd him: behold, we ſaw the Maid faſten'd to a Tree, Naked as ſhe was born, her own Hair ſerv'd for a Cord to bind her, her own Hair in a Thouſand Knots was wreath'd about the Tree; and her beautiful Girdle, which was before the Guardian of her Virgin Breaſt, became an Inſtrument in her Raviſhment, and bound both her Hands to the hard Trunk: The Tree itſelf afforded Fetters to bind her, for the Twigs of a pliant Bough were twiſted round both her tender Legs. Before her ſtood a villanous Satyr, we ſaw him, who had juſt then bound her. She made as great Reſiſtance as ſhe could, but in length of Time what could ſhe have done? Aminta, with a Dart, which he held in his Right-Hand, ruſh'd upon the Satyr like a Lion, and I, in the mean while, fill'd my Lap with Stones; whereat he fled: As the other's Flight gave him Time to look, he turn'd his greedy Eyes on thoſe beautiful Limbs, which trembl'd like the unpreſs'd Curds, and appear'd as delicate and white: and I ſaw him all inflam'd at the Sight: after that he ſoftly accoſted her with modeſt Looks, and ſaid: O, lovely Sylvia! pardon theſe Hands for daring to approach thy beautiful Limbs, ſince hard Neceſſity obliges them; Neceſſity to unlooſe thoſe Bands of yours; neither let this Favour, which Fortune is willing to grant them, cauſe your Diſpleaſure.

 Cho.

Words that might ſoften a Heart of Stone, but what did ſhe anſwer then?

 Thyr.

She anſwer'd nothing, but diſdainful and bluſhing, ſhe inclin'd her Face towards the Earth, and conceal'd her delicate Boſom, as much as ſhe could, by bending. He ſtanding before her began to diſintangle her beautiful Hair, and ſaid the while: This rugged Trunk was not worthy of ſuch lovely Knots; now what Advantage have the Votaries of Love; if thoſe precious Chains are common to them and the Plants? Cruel Tree, could'ſt thou injure that lovely Hair, which did thee ſo much Honour? Then with his Hands he untied her Hands in ſuch a Manner, that he ſeem'd afraid to touch them, and yet at the ſame Time deſir'd it; after that he ſtoop'd down to untie her Feet. But, as Sylvia ſaw that her own Hands were at Liberty, ſhe ſaid, with a diſdainful Air, Shepherd, touch me not: I am Diana's: I can unbind my Feet my ſelf.

 Cho.

Could ſuch Pride be harbour'd in the Breaſt of a Maid? alas! ungrateful Return to a gracious Action.

 Thyr.

He withdrew with Reverence; not ſo much as daring to raiſe his Eyes to look on her; denying himſelf his own Pleaſure, that he might rid her of the Trouble of denying it. I, who was hid hard by, and ſaw and heard the whole, was ready to upbraid her, but that I curb'd my ſelf. Hear now a ſtrange Thing. When, with much trouble, ſhe had loos'd herſelf, ſhe was ſcarce free, before, without ſaying ſo much as Adieu, ſhe began to fly like a Deer; tho' ſhe had no Reaſon to be afraid, after ſuch a Trial of Aminta's Reſpect.

 Cho.

Why then did ſhe fly?

 Thyr.

Becauſe ſhe would be oblig'd to her own Flight; and not to the modeſt Love of another.

 Cho.

And in this ſhe is ſtill more Ungrateful. But what did the wretched Aminta do then, or what did he ſay?

 Thyr.

I can't tell, for full of Anger I ran to overtake her, and detain her, but in vain, for I ſoon loſt her: then returning to the Fountain, where I left Aminta, I found him not: But my Heart preſages ſome Evil. I know that he was diſpoſed to Die before this happen'd.

 Cho.

It is the Cuſtom and the Art of every one that is in Love, to threaten his own Death, but the Effect very ſeldom follows.

 Thyr.

Heavens grant that he mayn't be one of thoſe rare Ones.

 Cho.

He won't be, no.

 Thyr.

I'll go to the Cave of Sage Elpin, there, if he is alive, perhaps he is retreated; where he is often wont to ſolace his moſt bitter Pains with the ſweet ſound of his melodious Pipe, which draws the liſtning Rocks from the ſteep Mountains, cauſeth Rivers to flow with pure Milk; and diſtills Honey from our hard Trees.
SCENA SECONDA. Aminta. Dafne. Nerina. DIſpietata pietate Fù la tua veramente, ò Dafne, allhora Che riteneſti il dardo; Però che 'l mio morire Più amaro ſarà, quanto più tardo. Et hor, perche m' avvolgi Per sì diverſe ſtrade, e per sì varii Ragionamenti in vano? di che temi? Ch' lo non m' uccida? temi del mio bene. Daf. Non diſperar, Aminta, Che, sì io lei ben conoſco, Sola vergogna fù, non crudeltate, Quella, che moſſe Silvia à fuggir via. Am. Ohime, che mia ſalute Sarebbe il diſperare, Poiche ſol la ſperanza E ſtata mia rovina: & anco, ahi laſſo, Tenta di germogliar dentr' al mio petto; Sol perche io viva; e quale è maggior male De la vita d' un miſero, com' io? Daf. Vivi, miſero vivi, Ne la miſeria tua: e queſto ſtato Sopporta ſol per divenir felice: Quando che ſia. ſia premio de la ſpeme, (Se vivendo, e ſperando ti mantieni) Quel, che vedeſti ne la bella ignuda. Am. Non pareva ad Amor, e à mia Fortuna, Ch' à pien miſero foſſi, s' anco à pieno Non m'era dimoſtrato Quel, che m' era negato. Ner. Dunque à me pur convien d' eſſer ſiniſtra Cornice d'amariſſima novella. O per mai ſempre miſero Montano! Qual' animo fia 'l tuo, quando udirai De l' unica tua Silvia il duro caſo? Padre vecchio, orbo padre: ahi non più padre. Daf. Odo una meſta voce. Am. Io odo 'l nome Di Silvia, che gli orecchi, e'l cor mi fere: Ma, chi è, che la noma? Daf. Ella è Nerina, Ninfa gentil, che tanto à Cinthia è cara, C' hà sì begli occhi, e così belle mani, E modi sì avvenenti, e gratioſi. Ner. E pur voglio, che'l ſappi, e che procuri Di ritrovar le reliquie infelici, Se nulla ve ne reſta: ahi, Silvia ahi dura Infelice tua ſorte. Am. Ohime, che fia, che coſtei dice? Ner. O Dafne, Daf. Che parli fra te ſteſſa, e perche nomi Tu Silvia, e poi ſoſpiri? Ner. Ahi, ch' à ragione Soſpiro l' aſpro caſo. Am. Ahi, di qual caſo Può ragionar coſtei? io ſento, io ſento, Che mi s' agghiaccia il core, e mi ſi chiude Lo ſpirto. e viva? Daf. Narra; qual' aſpro caſo è quel, che dici? Ner. O Dio, perche ſon io La meſſaggiera? e pur convien narrarlo. Venne Silvia al mio albergo ignuda; e quale Foſſe l' occaſion, ſaper la dei: Poi riveſtita mi pregò, che ſeco Ir voleſſi à la caccia, ch' ordinata Era nel boſco, c' hà nome da l' Elci. Io la compiacqui: andammo, e ritrovammo Molte Ninfe ridotte; & indi à poco Ecco, di non sò donde un lupo sbuca, Grande fuor di miſura, e da le labra Gocciolava una bava ſanguinoſa. Silvia un quadrello adatta sù la corda D' un' arco, ch' io le diedi, e tira, e'l coglie A ſommo 'l capo: ei ſi rinſelva, ed, ella Vibrando un dardo, dentro 'l boſco il ſegue. Am. O delente principio; ohimè, qual fine Già mi s' annuncia? Ner. Io con un' altro dardo Seguo la traccia; ma lontana aſſai; Che più tarda mi moſſi. come furo Dentro la ſelva, più non li rividi; Ma pur per l' orme lor tanto m' avvolſi, Che giunſi nel più folto, e più deſerto. Quivi il dardo di Silvia in terra ſcorſi, Nè molto ivi lontano un bianco velo, Ch' io ſteſſa le ravolſi al crine: e, mentre Mi guardo intorno, vidi ſette lupi, Che leccavan di terra alquanto ſangue Sparto intorno à cert' oſſa affatto nude; E fù mia ſorte, ch' io non fui veduta Da loro; tanto intenti erano al paſto: Tal che, piena di tema, e di pietate, Indietro ritornai: e queſto è quanto Poſſo dirvi di Silvia: & ecco 'l velo. Am. Poco parti haver detto? O velo, ò ſangue. O Silvia, tù ſe' morta. Daf. O meſerello, Tramortito è d' affanno, e forſe morto. Ner. Egli reſpira pure: queſto fia Un breve ſvenimento: ecco riviene. Am. Dolor, che sì mi crucii, Che non m' uccidi homai? tu ſei pur lento. Forſe laſci l' officio à la mia mano? Io ſon, io ſon contento, Ch' ella prenda tal cura, Poiche tu la ricuſi, ò che non puoi. Ohimè, Se nulla manca A la certezza homai, E nulla manca al colmo De la miſeria mia; Che bado? che più aſpetto? ò Dafne, ò Dafne, A queſto amaro ſin tu mi ſalvaſti, A queſto fine amaro? Bello, e dolce morir fù certo allhora, Che uccidere io mi volſi. Tu me'l negaſti, e'l Ciel, à cui parea, Ch' io precorreſſi col morir la noia, Ch' appreſtata m' havea. Hor che fatt' hà l' eſtremo De la ſua crudeltate Ben ſoffrirà, ch' io moia; E tu ſoffrir lo dei. Daf. Aſpetta à la tua morte, Sin che'l ver meglio intenda. Am. Ohimè, che vuoi, ch' attenda? Ohimè, che tropp'ho atteſo, e troppo inteſo. Ner. Deh, foſs' io ſtata muta, Am. Ninfa, dammi, ti prego, Quel velo, ch' è di lei Solo, e miſero avvanzo: Si ch' egli m' accompagne Per queſto breve ſpatio E di via, e di vita, che mi reſta; E con la ſua preſenza Accreſca quel martire, Ch' è ben picciol martire, S' hò biſogno d' ajuto al mio morire. Ner. Debbo darlo, ò negarlo? La cagion, perche 'l chiedi, Fà, ch' io debba negarlo. Am. Crudel, sì picciol dono Mi neghi al punto eſtremo? E'n queſto anco maligno Mi ſi moſtra il mio fato. io cedo, io cedo. A te ſi reſti, e voi reſtate ancora, Ch' io vo' per non tornare. Daf. Aminta aſpetta, aſcolta: Ohimè con quanta furia egli ſi parte, Ner. Egli và ſi veloce, Che fia vano il ſeguirlo, ond' è pur meglio, Ch' io ſegua il mio viaggio: e forſe è meglio Ch' io taccia, e nulla conti Al miſero Montano
SCENE the SECOND. Aminta. Daphne. Nerina. Am.

TRULY uncompaſſionate was your Compaſſion, Daphne, when you held back the Dart; becauſe my Death will be the more bitter, the more it is delay'd. And now, why do you perplex me in vain with ſuch different Deſigns, and various Diſcourſes? What are you afraid of? leſt I ſhould Kill myſelf? You are afraid of my Happineſs.

 Daph.

Don't deſpair, Aminta, for if I know her well, 'twas only Modeſty, and not Cruelty, that mov'd Sylvia to fly from thee.

 Am.

Alas! that Deſpair ſhould be my only Refuge, ſince Hope alone has proved my Ruin: and yet, alas! Hope ſtill ſtruggles to revive within my Breaſt, only to bid me live; and what can be a greater Evil than Life to ſuch a Wretch, as I am?

 Daph.

Live, unhappy Aminta! live in your Miſery; and ſupport this Condition to be made one Day happy; and when that Time comes, may thoſe Charms which you ſaw in the fair Naked one, if you maintain yourſelf in Life and Hope, be the Reward of your Hope.

 Am.

Love and my hard Fate thought not my Miſery compleat enough; but that they muſt ſhew me, to encreaſe it ſtill, that, which was denied me.

 Neri.

Muſt I be then the Raven, ſiniſter Meſſenger of moſt bitter Tidings? O! for ever unfortunate Montanus! How great will your Grief be, when you ſhall hear of the hard Miſchance of your only Sylvia? Poor, old, unhappy, childleſs Father; a Father now no more.

 Daph.

I hear a ſad lamenting Voice.

 Am.

I hear the Name of Sylvia, which ſtrikes through my Ears and Heart: but who is that, that names Her?

 Daph.

'Tis Nerina, that gentle Nymph, who is ſo Dear to Diana; who has ſuch lovely Eyes and fair Hands, and ſo becoming and graceful a Behaviour.

 Neri.

And yet he muſt know it, that he may endeavour to find the unhappy Relicks, if any remain: Alas! poor Sylvia, alas! your hard unhappy Fate.

 Am.

Ah me! what is the Matter, what does She ſay?

 Neri.

Oh! Daphne.

Daph.

Why do you ſpeak to yourſelf, and name Sylvia thus Sighing?

 Neri.

Alas! It is with Reaſon that I ſigh for her hard Misfortune.

 Am.

Ah! what Misfortune can ſhe be ſpeaking of? I ſeel, I feel, that my Heart is all frozen, and my Breath ſtopp'd. Does ſhe Live?

 Daph.

Speak, what is this unhappy Accident you talk of?

 Neri.

O Heavens! muſt I be then the Meſſenger? and yet I muſt relate it. Sylvia came to my Cottage Naked; and what was the occaſion of it, you perhaps may beſt know; When ſhe was dreſs'd again, ſhe deſir'd me to go to the Chace with her, which was appointed in the Grove, that's called the Grove of Oaks. I comply'd with her: we went, and there we found a great many Nymphs aſſembled together; and within a little while, behold, I know not from whence, there ruſh'd out a Wolf, of a prodigious ſize; from his Jaws diſtill'd a bloody Foam. Sylvia fitted an Arrow to the ſtring of her Bow, which I gave her; let fly at him, and hit him on the Top of the Head: He made into the Wood again, and Sylvia brandiſhing her Dart, purſu'd him thither.

 Am.

Oh! ſorrowful Beginning; what Concluſion does it promiſe?

 Neri.

I, with another Dart, follow'd the ſame Track, but far behind; becauſe I ſet out later. When they came into the Wood, I loſt Sight of them; but I follow'd their Foot-ſteps ſo far, till I came into the thickeſt, and moſt ſolitary Part of the Wood: There I ſaw the Dart of Sylvia on the Ground, and not far from thence a white Veil, which I myſelf had bound about her Hair: the mean while, looking about me, I ſaw Seven Wolves, which were licking ſome Blood from the Earth, which was ſprinkl'd about ſome naked Bones; 'twas my good Fortune, that I was not perceiv'd by them, they were ſo intent upon their Feeding: ſo that I return'd back, full of Fear and Compaſſion; and this is all I can tell you of Sylvia: See, here is the Veil.

 Am.

Think you, you have ſaid but little? O Veil! O Blood! O Sylvia! thou art Dead.

 Daph.

Poor Youth, he Dies with Grief; alas! He's Dead.

 Ner.

No, he breathes a little ſtill; it may only be a ſhort Trance: See, he recovers.

 Am.

Oh Grief! why doſt thou thus Torment me? and wilt not end me; ſlow thou art, likely becauſe thou leaveſt the Work to my own Hand: I am, I am content that my own Hand ſhall take that Office; ſince either thou refuſeſt, or can'ſt not perform it: Alas! if nothing is now wanting to the Certainty, and nothing wanting to the Extremity of my Miſery, why do I linger? what can I more expect! O Daphne! Daphne! to what End, to what bitter End have you reſerv'd me? Pleaſant and Sweet had been my Death then, when I would have kill'd myſelf; but you denied me that, and Heaven too, which knew that I ſhould by my Death have prevented that Miſery, it had prepared for me. But now it has inflicted upon me, the Extremity of its Cruelty, it will ſuffer me to Die, and you ought alſo to give me leave.

 Daph.

Wait, before your Death, till the Truth be better known.

 Am.

Alas! what would you have me wait? Alas! I have waited too long, and heard too much.

 Ner.

Ah! would I had been Dumb.

 Am.

I beſeech you Nymph give me that Veil, the ſad and only Remainder of her; that it may accompany me in this ſhort Space of Way and Life which is yet remaining to me; and by its Preſence encreaſe that Martyrdom, which indeed would be no Martyrdom, if I wanted any thing more to help me to Die.

 Ner.

Ought I to give it, or deny it; the Reaſon why he asks makes it my Duty to deny it.

 Am.

Cruel Nymph! do you deny me ſo ſmall a Gift in my laſt Extremity? and in this my Fate ſhews it ſelf ſtill more Malicious. I yield, I yield, may it remain with you, and ſtay ye alſo, I go never to return again.

 Daph.

Stay, Aminta, hear me; Alas! with what Fury he parts from us.

 Ner.

He runs ſo ſwiftly, that 'twould be in vain to follow him; my beſt way is to go on my Journey; and perhaps it would be better for me to hold my Peace, and ſay nothing to the unhappy Montanus.

CHORO. NON biſogna la Morte, Ch' à ſtringer nobil core, Prima baſta la fede, e poi l' amore, Ne quella, che ſi cerca, E sì difficil fama, Seguendo chi ben' ama, Ch' amore è merce, con amar ſi merca; E cercando l' amor ſi trova ſpeſſo Gloria immortal appreſſo.
CHORUS.

THERE's no Need of Death to move a generous Heart, Fidelity and Love are ſufficient; neither is the Fame of being a faithful Lover, which is ſo often ſought after, ſo difficult to be acquir'd: Love is a Trading-Ware, and is bought with Love; and often he that ſeeks only Love, gains immortal Glory into the Bargain.
ATTO QUARTO. SCENA PRIMA. Dafne. Silvia. Choro. NE porti il vento con la ria novella, Che s' era di te ſparta, ogni tuo male, E preſente, e futuro: tu ſei viva, E ſana, Dio lodato: & io per morta Pur hora ti tenea: in tal maniera M' havea Nerina il tuo caſo dipinto. Ahi foſſe ſtata muta, ed altri ſordo. Syl. Certo il riſchio fù grande, & ella havea Giuſta cagion di ſoſpettarmi morta. Daf. Ma non giuſta cagion havea di dirlo: Hor narra tu, qual foſſe 'l riſchio, e come Tu lo fuggiſti. Syl. Io, ſeguitando un lupo, Mi rinſelvai nel più profondo boſco, Tanto, ch' io ne per dei la traccia: hor, mentre Cerco di ritornare, onde mi tolſi; Il vidi, e riconobbi à un ſtral, che fitto Gli haveva di mìa man preſs' un' orecchio, Il vidi con molt' altri intorno à un corpo D' un' animal, c' havea di freſco ucciſo: Ma non diſtinſi ben la forma. Il lupo Ferito, credo, mi connobbe, e'ncontro Mi venne con la bocca ſanguinoſa. Io l' aſpettava ardita, e con la deſtra Vibrava un dardo; tu ſai ben s' io ſono Maeſtra di ferire, e ſe mai ſoglio Far colpo in fallo. Hor, quando il vidi tanto Vicin, che giuſto ſpatio mi parea A la perceſſa, lanciai un dardo, e'n vano: Che, colpa di fortuna, ò pur mia colpa, In vece ſua colſi una pianta: allhora Più ingordo incontro ei mi veniva, & io, Che 'l vidi sì vicin, che ſtimai vano L' uſo dell' arco, non havendo altr' armi, A la fuga ricorſi: io fuggo, & egli Non reſta di ſeguirmi. Hor, odi caſo. Un vel, c' haveva involto intorno il crine, Si ſpiegò in parte, e giva ventilando, Sì, ch' ad un ramo avviluppoſſi: io ſento, Che non sò che mi tien, e mi ritarda. Io, per la tema del morir raddoppio La forza al corſo, e d' altra parte il ramo Non cede, e non mi laſcia: al fin mi ſvolgo Del velo, e alquanto de' miei crini ancora Laſcio ſvelti col velo, e cotant' ali M' impennò la paura à i piè fugaci, Ch' ei non mi giunſe, e ſalva uſcii del boſco. Poi tornando al mio albergo, io t' incontrai Tutta turbata, e mi ſtupii, vedendo Stupirti al mio apparir. Daf. Ohimè, tu vivi. Altri non già. Syl. Che dici? ti rincreſce Forſe, ch' io viva ſia? M' odi tu tanto? Daf. Mi piace di tua vita, ma mi duole De l'altrui morte. Syl. E di qual morte intendi? Daf. De la morte d' Aminta. Sil. Ahi, com'è morto? Daf. Il come non sò dir, nè sò dir anco, S' è ver l' effetto; ma per certo il credo. Sil. Che' è ciò, che tu mi dici? & à chi rechi La cagion di ſua morte? Daf. A la tua morte. Sil. Io non t' intendo. Daf. La dura novella De la tua morte, ch' egli udì, e credette, Havrà porto al meſchino il laccio, o'l ferro, Od altra coſa tal, che l' havrà ucciſo. Sil. Vano il ſoſpetto in te de la ſua morte Sarà, come fù van de la mia morte; Ch' ogn' uno à ſuo poter ſalva la vita. Daf. O Silvia, Silvia: tu non ſai, nè credi, Quanto 'l foco d' amor poſſa in un petto, Che petto ſia di carne, e non di pietra, Com' è coteſto tuo: che, ſe creduto L' haveſti, havreſti amato chi t'amava Più, che le care pupille de gli occhi; Più che lo ſpirto de la vita ſua. Il credo io ben, anzi l' hò viſto, ò ſollo; Il vidi, quando tu fuggiſti (ò fera Più, che tigre crudel,) & in quel punto, Ch' abbracciar lo dovevi, il vidi un dardo Rivolgere in ſe ſteſſo, e quello al petto Premerſi diſperato, ne pentirſi Poſcia nel fatto, che le veſti, & anco La pelle trapaſſoſſi, e nel ſuo ſangue Lo tinſe, e 'l ferro ſaria giunto à dentro, E paſſato quel cor, che tu paſſaſti Più duramente, ſe non ch' io gli tenni Il braccio, e l' impedij, ch' oltra non foſſe: Ahi, laſſa, e forſe quella breve piaga Solo una prova fù del ſuo furore, E de la diſperata ſua conſtanza, E moſtrò quella ſtrada al ferro audace, Che correr poi dovea liberamente. Sil. Oh, che mi narri? Daf. Il vidi poſcia allhora, Ch' inteſe l' amariſſima novella De la tua morte, tramortir d' affanno, E poi partirſi furioſo in fretta, Per uccider ſe ſteſſo, e s' havrà ucciſo Veracemente. Sil. E ciò per fermo tieni? Daf. Io non v' hò dubbio. Sil. Ohimè, tu no 'l ſeguiſti Per impedirlo? ohimè, cerchiamo, andiamo; Che, poi ch' egli moria per la mia morte, Dè per la vita mia reſtare in vita. Daf. Io lo ſeguii; ma correa in veloce, Che mi ſparì toſto dinanzi; e'n darno Poi mi girai per le ſue orme: hor dove Vuoi tu cercar, ſe non n' hai traccia alcuna? Sil. Egli morrà, ſe no'l traviamo, ahi, laſſa: E ſarà l' homicida ei di ſe ſteſſo. Daf. Crudel, forſe t' increſce, ch' à te tolga La gloria di queſt' atto? eſſer tu dunque L' homicida vorreſti? e non ti pare, Che la ſua cruda morte eſſer debb' opra D' altri, che di tua mano? hor ti conſola, Che comunque egli muoja, per te muore. E tu ſei, che l' uccidi. Sil. Ohimè, che tu m' accori, e quel cordoglio, Ch' io ſento del ſuo caſo, inacerbiſce Con l' acerba memoria De la mia crudeltate, Ch' io chiamava Honeſtate, e ben fù tale; Ma fù troppo ſevera, e rigoroſa. Hor me n' accorgo, e pento. Daf. Oh, quel, ch' io odo! Tu ſei pietoſa, tu, tu ſenti al core Spirto alcun di pietate? Oh, che vegg' io? Tu piangi, tu ſuperba? oh maraviglia! Che pianto è queſto tuo? pianto d' Amore? Sil. Pianto d' Amor non già, ma di pietate. Daf. La pietà meſſaggiera è de l' Amore, Come 'l lampo del tuono. Cho. Anzi ſovente, Quando egli vuol ne' petti verginelli Occulto entrare, onde fù prima eſcluſo Da ſevera honeſtà, l' habito prende, Prende l' aſpetto de la ſua miniſtra, E ſua nuncia pietate, e con tai larve Le ſemplici ingannando, è dentro accolto. Daf. Queſt' è pianto d' Amor, che troppo abonda. Tu taci? ami tu, Silvia? ami, ma in vano. O potenza d' Amor! giuſto caſtigo Manda ſovra coſtei. miſero Aminta Tu in guiſa d' Ape, che ferendo muore, E ne le piaghe altrui laſcia la vita, Con la tua morte hai pur trafitto al fine Quel duro cor, che non poteſti mai Punger vivendo. Hor ſe tu ſpirto errante, (Si come io credo) e de le membra ignudo, Qui intorno ſei, mira il ſuo pianto, e godi. Amante in vita, amato in morte; e s' era Tuò deſtin, che tu foſti in morte amato; E ſe queſta crudel volea l' amore Venderti ſol con prezzo così caro; Deſti quel prezzo tu, ch' ella richieſe, E l' amor ſuo col tuo morir compraſti. Cho. Caro prezzo à chi 'l diede: à chi 'lriceve, Prezzo inutile, e infame. Sil. O poteſs' io Con l' amor mio comprar la vita ſua; Anzi pur con la mia la vita ſua, S' egli ò pur morto. Daf. O tardi ſaggia, e tardi Pietoſa, quando ciò nulla rileva.
ACT the FOURTH. SCENE the FIRST. Daphne. Sylvia. Chorus. Daph.

MAY the Wind bear away all your Evils, both preſent and future; together with the ill News, that was lately ſpread concerning you: you are Alive, and in Health, Heaven be prais'd: and e'en juſt now I thought you Dead; in ſuch Manner had Nerina repreſented your Miſchance: Alas! would ſhe had been Dumb, or ſome one that heard her Deaf.

 Syl.

Truly my Danger was great, and She had juſt Reaſon to ſuſpect that I was Dead.

 Daph.

But She had not juſt Reaſon to ſay ſo: tell me now, What was your Danger, and how did you eſcape it?

 Syl.

In following a Wolf, I entred ſo far into the profound Thicket of a Wood, that I loſt his Track; and as I was ſeeking to return, whence I came, I ſaw him, and knew him again by the Arrow, with which I had wounded him with my own Hand, near the Ear; I ſaw him, with many others, round the Body of a Beaſt, which he had newly ſlain: but I could not diſtinguiſh by the Shape, what Beaſt it was. The wounded Wolf, I ſuppoſe, knew me, and came towards me with his bloody Mouth. I waited for him Courageouſly, and in my Right-Hand brandiſh'd a Dart; you well know, that I am expert at Hitting the Mark, and that I am not us'd to aim a Blow in vain: now when I ſaw him near me, and the Diſtance ſeem'd proper for the Blow, I lanc'd a Dart, but in vain: for, either through Fortune's Fault, or Mine, inſtead of him, I hit a Tree; and then he came towards me fiercer, than before; and I, who ſaw him ſo near me, that I thought it in vain to uſe my Bow, having no other Arms, betook myſelf to Flight; away I ran, and he delay'd not to follow me. Hear now, what happen'd: A Veil, which I had bound about my Hair, was half undone, and flew looſe in the Wind, till at length it had wound itſelf about a Bough: I felt that ſomething detain'd, and retarded me: but, through the Fear of Death, I redoubl'd my Strength in running, and on the other Hand the Bough would not yield, and let me go: at length I diſengag'd myſelf from my Veil, and left behind me ſome of my Hair that was pluck'd off with it, and Fear ſo furniſh'd my running Feet with Wings, that he did not overtake me, and I came ſafe out of the Wood. Returning home, I found you quite Amaz'd, and was Surpriſed myſelf, to ſee you ſurpriſed at my Appearance.

 Daph.

Alas! You live; another does not.

 Sylv.

What do you ſay? are you ſorry then, that I am Alive? Do you hate me ſo much?

 Daph.

I am glad that you are Alive, but grieve at another's Death.

 Syl.

Whoſe Death do you mean?

 Daph.

The Death of Aminta.

Sylv.

Alas! Is he then Dead? How can that be!

 Daph.

How, I cannot tell, nor yet can tell, whether the Fact be true, but I believe it firmly.

 Sylv.

What's this, you tell me? To what do you aſcribe the occaſion of his Death?

 Daph.

To your Death.

 Sylv.

I don't underſtand you.

 Daph.

The ſad News of your Death, which he credited, brought him to the Nooſe, the Sword, or ſomething elſe, which has prov'd his Death.

 Sylv.

Your Suſpicion of his Death will be as vain, as that of mine: for every one, to the utmoſt of his Power, endeavours to ſave his Life.

 Da.

O Sylvia! Sylvia! you neither can conceive, nor believe, how much the Fire of Love can do within a Breaſt, a Breaſt of Fleſh, and not of Stone, as thine is: for, if you had believ'd it, you would have lov'd him, who lov'd you, more than the Apples of his Eyes, or the Breath of his Life: for my Part, I believe it, nay, I have ſeen it and know it; I ſaw him, when you ran away, (O more Savage than the cruel Tyger) and at that time, when you ought rather to have embrac'd him, I ſaw him point a Dart towards himſelf, and preſs it to his Breaſt, deſpairing and unrepenting of the Action; through his Garments and his Skin it paſs'd, and was dy'd in his Blood, and the Steel would have enter'd within, and pierc'd that Heart, which you had pierc'd more cruelly, had not I held his Arm, and hinder'd it from going farther: Alas! that ſlight Wound was perhaps only a Proof of his Fury, and his deſparing Conſtancy, and ſhew'd the Way to the Daring Steel, which afterward it was to follow more freely.

 Sylv.

Alas! What do you tell me!

 Daph.

I ſaw him afterwards, when he heard the moſt bitter News of your Death, faint away with Grief, and then furiouſly depart in haſt, to kill himſelf, and he has kill'd himſelf moſt certainly.

 Sylv.

And do you really believe it?

 Daph.

I don't at all doubt it.

 Sylv.

Alas! Why did you not follow him, and prevent him! Ah! let us go and ſeek him; for ſince he dies, becauſe of my Death, becauſe I am alive, he ought to Live.

 Daph.

I follow'd him, but he ran ſo ſwiftly, that ſoon he got out of ſight, and in vain afterwards I ſought his Steps: Now where will you ſeek him out, without any Track to follow him?

 Sylv.

Alas! he'll Die if we don't find him out, and will be his own Deſtroyer.

 Daph.

Cruel! perhaps you grieve, that he ſhould take from you the Honour of that Action; would you then have been his Murthereſs? and think you, that his Cruel Death ought not to be the Work of any other Hand, but your own? Comfort yourſelf, for in what Manner ſoever he dies, he dies for you, and you are the Perſon, that kills him.

 Syl.

Ah! how you afflict me, and that Grief, which I feel for his Misfortune, is embitter'd by the Memory of my Cruelty, which I call'd Honour; and ſo indeed it was, but it was too ſevere, and rigorous. Now I perceive it, and repent.

 Daph.

What do I hear? Are you Compaſſionate, and do you feel within your Heart any Breath of Pity? Oh! What do I ſee! Do you Weep, proud Maid? Oh! Wonder! What Tears are theſe? Tears of Love?

 Sylv.

Not Tears of Love, but of Pity.

 Daph.

Pity is the Forerunner of Love, as Lightning is of Thunder.

 Chor.

Nay oftentimes, when Love has a Mind to ſteal into a Virgin's Breaſt, whence he was before excluded by ſevere Honour, he takes the Habit and the Shape of his Servant and Meſſenger, Pity, and with ſuch diſguiſe deceiving the Simple, he gets Poſſeſſion within their Breaſt.

 Daph.

Theſe are the Tears of Love, they flow ſo faſt: What! Are you ſilent? Do you love, Sylvia? You love, but in vain. Oh! the Power of Love, which inflicts on her a juſt Chaſtiſement. Unhappy Aminta! you, like a Bee, which Dies, as he ſtrikes, and leaves his Life in another's Wound; have at length pierc'd that hard Heart, which you never could do, when you was alive. Now if thou, wandring Spirit, free'd from thy Body, wandereſt here-about (as I believe) look on her Tears and rejoice. Loving in Life, belov'd in Death! and, if it was thy Deſtiny, to be belov'd in Death, and if this Cruel Maid was reſolv'd to ſell thee her Love at ſo dear a Price, thou haſt given that Price, which ſhe requir'd, and thou haſt bought her Love with thy Death.

 Chor.

A dear Price to him that pays it; but to the Receiver uſeleſs and infamous.

 Sylv.

Oh! Could I with my Love purchaſe his Life; nay, with my own Life purchaſe his, if he is Dead.

 Daph.

O! Wiſe and Compaſſionate too late, when nothing will avail.
SCENA SECONDA. Nunzio. Choro. Silvia. Dafne. IO hò sì pieno il petto di pietate, E sì pieno d' horror, che non rimiro, Ne odo alcuna coſa, onde mi volga, La qual non mi ſpaventi, e non m' affanni. Cho. Hor, ch' apporta coſtui, Ch' è sè turbato in viſta, & in favella 〈1 page duplicate〉 Nun. Porto l' aſpra novella De la morte d' Aminta. Sil. Ohimè, che dice Nun. Il più nobil Paſtor di queſte ſelve, Che fù così gentil, così leggiadro, Così caro à le Ninfe, & à le Muſe, Et è morto fanciullo, ahi, di che morte? Cho. Contane, prego, il tutto, acciò che teco Pianger poſſiam la ſua ſciagura, e noſtra. Sil. Ohimè, ch' io non ardiſco Appreſſarmi ad udire Quel, ch' è pur forza udire: empio mio core, Mio duro alpeſtre core, Di che, di che paventi? Vattena incontra pure A quei coltei pungenti, Che coſtui porta ne la lingua, e quivi Moſtra la tua fierezza. Paſtore, io vengo à parte Di quel dolor, che tú prometti altrui; Che à me ben ſi conviene Piú che forſe non penfi, & io 'l ricevo Come dovuta coſa: hor tu di lui Non mi ſii dunque ſcarſo. Nun. Ninfa, io ti credo bene, Ch'io ſentii quel meſchino in ſù la morte Finir la vita ſua, Co'l chiamar il tuo nome. Daf. Hora comincia homai Queſta dolente hiſtoria. Nun. Io era à mezzo 'l colle, ove havea teſo Certe mie reti, quando aſſai vicino Vidi paſſar Aminta in volto, e in atti Troppo mutato da quel, ch' ei ſoleva, Troppo turbato, e ſcuro. Io corſi, e corſi Tanto, che 'l giunſi, e lo fermai: & egli Mi diſſe Ergaſto, io vo', che tu mi faccia Un gran piacer. queſt' è, che tu ne venga Meco per teſtimonio d' un mio fatto: Ma pria voglio da te, che tu mi leghi Di ſtretto giuramento la tua fede, Di ſtartene in diſparte, e non por mano Per impedirmi in quel, che ſon per fare. Io (chi penſato havria caſo sì ſtrano, Nè sì pazzo furor?) come egli volſe, Feci ſcongiuri horribili, chiamando E Pane, e Palla, e Priapo, e Pomona, Et Hecate notturna: indi ſi moſſe, E mi conduſſe, ov' è ſcoſceſo il colle, E giù per balze, e per dirupi incolti, Strada non già, che non v' è ſtrada alcuna, Ma cala un precipitio in una valle. Qui ci fermammo: io, rimirando à baſſo, Tutto ſentii raccapricciarmi, e 'n dietro Toſto mi traſſi: & egli un cotal poce Parve rideſſe, e ſerenoſſi il viſo: Onde quell' atto più raſſicurommi. Indi parlommi sì: Fà, che tu conti A le Ninfe, e à i Paſtor, ciò che vedrai: Poi diſſe, in giù guardando: Se preſti al mio volere Così haver io poteſſi La gola, e i denti de gli avidi lupi, Com' hò queſti dirupi, Sol vorrei far la morte, Che fece la mia vita: Vorrei, che queſte mie membra meſchine Sì foſſer lacerate, Ohimè, come già furo Quelle ſue delicate. Poiche non poſſo, e 'l Cielo Dinega al mio deſire Gli animali voraci, Che ben verriano à tempo: io prender voglio Altra ſtrada al morire: Prenderò quella via. Che ſe non la devuta, Almen fia la più breve. Silvia, io ti ſeguo, io vengo A farti compagnia, Se non la ſdegnerai: E morirei contento, S' io foſſi certo almeno, Che 'l mio venirti dietro Turbar non ti doveſſe, E che foſſe finita L' ira tua con la vita Silvia, io ti ſeguo; io vengo. Così detto, Precipitoſſi d' alto Co'l capo in giuſo, & io reſtai di ghiaccio. Daf. Miſero Aminta. Sil. Ohime. Cho. Perche non l' i mpediſti? Forſe ti fù ritegno à ritenerlo Il fatto giuramento? Nun. Queſto nò, che ſprezzando i giuramenti Vani forſe in tal caſo, Quand' io m' accorſi del ſuo pazzo, & empio Proponimento, con la man vi corſi, E come volſe la ſua dura ſorte, Lo preſi in queſta faſcia di zendudo, Che lo cingeva; la qual non potendo L' impeto, e 'l peſo ſoſtener del corpo, Che s' era tutto abbandonato, in mano Spezzata mi rimaſe. Cho. E che divenne De l' infelice corpo? Nun. Io no 'l sò dire, Ch'era sì pien d' orrore, e di pietate, Che non mi diede il cor di rimirarvi, Per non vederlo in pezzi. Cho. O ſtrano caſo. Sil. Ohimè ben ſon di ſaſſo, Poiche queſta novella non m' uccide, Ahi, ſe la falſa morte Di chi tanto l' odiava, A lui tolſe la vita: Ben ſarebbe cagione, Che la verace morte Di chi tanto m' amava, Toglieſſe à me la vita: E vo', che la mi tolga, Se non potrà co 'l duol, almen co 'l ferro, O pur con queſta faſcia, Che non ſenza cagione Non ſeguì le ruine Del ſuo dolce Signore: Mà reſtò ſol per far in me vendetta De l' empio mio rigore: E del ſuo amaro fine. Cinto infelice, cinto Di Signor più infelice, Non ti ſpiaccia reſtare In sì odioſo albergo, Che tu vi reſti ſol per iſtromente Di vendetta, e di pena. Dovea certo, io dovea Eſſer compagna al mondo De l' infelice Aminta. Poſcia, ch' allhor non volſi, Sarò per opra tua Sua compagna à l' Inferno. Cho. Conſolati, meſchina, Che queſto è di fortuna, e non tua colpa. Sil. Paſtor, di che piangete? Se piangete il mio affanno, Io non merto pietate, Che non la ſeppi vſare: Se piangete il morire Del miſero Innocente, Queſto è picciolo ſegno A sì alta cagione; e tu raſciuga, Dafne queſte tue lagrime, per Dio, Se cagion ne ſon' io: Ben ti voglio pregare, Non per pietà di me, mà per pietate Di chi degno ne fue, Che m' aiuti à cercare, L' infelici ſue membra, e à ſepelirle: Queſto ſol mi ritiene, C' hor hora non m' uccida: Pagar vo' queſto vfficio, Poich' altro non m' avvanza, A l' amor, ch' ei portommi: E, ſe bene queſt' empia Mano contaminare Poteſſe la pietà de l' opra, pure Sò, che gli ſarà cara L' opra di queſta mano: Che sò certo, ch' ei m' ama, Come moſtrò morendo. Daf. Son contenta aiutarti in queſt' ufficio: Ma tù non già penſare D' haver poſcia à morire. Sil. Sin quì viſſi à me ſteſſa; A la mia feritate: hor: quel' ch' avvanza, Viver voglio ad Aminta: E, ſe non poſſo à lui, Viverò al freddo ſuo Cadavero infelice. Tanto, e non più mi lice Reſtar al mondo, e poi finir à un punto E l' eſſequie, e la vita. Paſtor: mà, quale ſtrada Ci conduce à la valle ove il dirupo Và à terminare? Nun. Queſta vi conduce; E quinci poco ſpatio ella è lontana. Daf. Andiam, che verrò teco, e guiderotti, Che ben rammento il luogo. Sil. A Dio, Paſtori; Piagge A Dio; A Dio ſelve; e fiumi, A Dio. Nun. Coſtei parla di modo, che dimoſtra D' eſſer diſpoſta à l' ultima partita.
SCENE the SECOND. A Meſſenger. Chorus. Sylvia. Daphne. Meſs.

MY Breaſt is ſo full of Compaſſion and Horror, that, where-ever I turn, all I look on, and all I hear, affrights and afflicts me.

 Cho.

What News does this Man bring, who appears ſo troubl'd in his 〈1 page duplicate〉 Looks, and in his Speech?

 Meſſ.

I bring the ſad News of Aminta's Death.

 Sylv.

Alas! what ſays he?

 Meſſ.

The nobleſt Shepherd of theſe Woods, who was ſo genteel, and comely, ſo dear to the Nymphs, and to the Muſes, is Dead in the Prime of his Youth; Alas! by what ſort of Death!

 Cho.

I beſeech you tell us the Whole, that we may lament, and condole with you, his Misfortune, and our own.

 Sylv.

Alas! I dare not approach to hear that, which yet I am forc'd to hear; cruel Heart! hard Heart of Stone! what art thou afraid of now? Go boldly on, againſt thoſe killing Weapons, which that Man carries on his Tongue, and there diſplay thy Fierceneſs. Shepherd, I come to ſhare the Grief, you bring to all of us; for it concerns me, more than you are aware of; I receive it as my Due, don't then withhold it from me.

 Meſſ.

Nymph, I believe you, for juſt upon his Death, I heard the Wretch, with his laſt Breath, ſtill calling on your Name.

 Daph.

Come on, begin the lamentable Story.

 Meſſ.

I was upon the Middle of you Hill, where I had ſpread abroad ſome Nets of mine, when I ſaw Aminta paſs by me, in Face and Action much chang'd from what he us'd to be, confus'd and cloudy in his Looks. I ran ſo faſt, that I overtook and ſtay'd him; he ſaid to me, Ergaſtus, I deſire a Favour of you, which is, that you would come with me, to bear Witneſs of a certain Deed of mine: but I would have you firſt bind your Faith to me, with a ſtrict Oath, that you will keep at a diſtance, and not ſtretch your Hand, to hinder me in that, which I am about to do. I (for who would have thought of ſo ſtrange an Accident, and ſo deſperate a Madneſs!) as he deſired me, made horrible Proteſtations, invoking Pan, and Pales, Priapus, Pomona, and nightly Hecate. Then he went on, and conducted me, not by any Path, for there was no Path there, but through the wild Rocky Paſſages of the craggy Mountain, where a Precipice falls into a Valley. There we ſtood, I, looking down, found my ſelf ſtruck with Horror, and ſoon ſhrunk back: and he ſeem'd to ſmile a little, and look ſerenely, which Action made me leſs miſtruſt him, and ſpoke to me thus: See that you tell the Nymphs, and Shepherds, what you ſhall behold, then looking down, he ſaid, could I have here, as ready to my Will, the Throats and Teeths of greedy Wolves as I have theſe Precipices, I would not die of any other Death, than ſhe did who was my Life: I would that theſe my miſerable Limbs, ſhould be torn. •… as! as her delicate Ones were. Since I can't have this, and Heaven denies to my Wiſhes thoſe voracious Animals, who would come very opportunely now, I am content to Die ſome other Way: I'll chooſe that Way, which, though it ben't the proper one, yet however is the ſhorteſt: Sylvia, I follow you, I come to bear you Company if you don't diſdain me: and I ſhould die content, were I but ſure, that my following you, would not diſquiet you, and that your Hate was ended with your Life: Sylvia, I follow you; I come. This ſaid, he threw himſelf Headlong from the Precipice, and I turn'd all to Ice at the Sight.

 Daph.

Unhappy Aminta.

Sylv.

Ah me.

 Chor.

Why didn't you prevent him? perhaps the Oath you had made, hindered you from detaining him.

 Meſſ.

My Oath, no; for not regarding Oaths (which perhaps are invalid in ſuch a Caſe) when I perceiv'd his deſperate and cruel Deſign, I ran thither with my Hand; and, as his hard Fate would have it, ſeiz'd him by that Girdle of Taffety which was round him; which (being too weak to ſuſtain the Force, and the Weight of his Body, which reſted all upon it,) remain torn in my Hand.

 Cho.

And what became of the unhappy Corpſe?

 Meſſ.

I know not, for I was ſo full of Horror and Pity, that my Heart would not ſuffer me to look again, to behold him daſht to Pieces.

 Chor.

O ſtrange Accident!

 Sylv.

Alas! ſure I am made of Stones, becauſe this News does not diſpatch me: Ah! if the falſe reported Death, of one who hated him ſo much, has taken away his Life! good Reaſon were it that the real Death of him, who lov'd me ſo much, ſhould take away my Life: And I am reſolv'd it ſhall do ſo; and if it can't with Grief, yet it ſhall by the Sword, or with this Girdle; which, not without Reaſon, did not follow the Ruins of its ſweet Maſter; but remains only to revenge on me my cruel Rigour, and his bitter End. O Girdle, unhappy Girdle, of a more unhappy Maſter, don't diſdain, to remain in ſo odious a Place, ſince you remain only to be an Inſtrument of Revenge and of Puniſhment. I ought certainly, I ought to have been in this World, the Companion of unhappy Aminta. But ſince I would not be ſo, I will be, by thy Aſſiſtance, his Companion in the World below.

 Chor.

Be comforted unhappy Maid, for 'tis Fortune's Fault, not Yours.

 Sylv.

Shepherds, wherefore do you Weep? if you are ſorry at my Grief, I don't deſerve Compaſſion, who knew not how to uſe it myſelf; if you lament the Death of the miſerable Innocent, this is too ſmall an Expreſſion of Grief for ſo great an Occaſion: And you, Daphne, for Heaven's ſake, dry up your Tears, if I am the Cauſe of them; but I muſt requeſt you, not out of Compaſſion to me, but to him who was worthy of your Compaſſion, to aſſiſt me in ſeeking, and burying the unhappy Body. 'Tis that alone which keeps me from killing myſelf this very Moment: I will do this laſt Office for him, ſince there remains no other for me to do in Recompence of the Love which he bore me; and though this Cruel Hand, might blemiſh the Piety of the Deed; yet I know, that what ever is done by this Hand, will be grateful to him: for I know certainly he loves me ſtill, as he has ſhewn, by Dying for me.

 Daph.

I am content to aſſiſt you in this Office; but think no more of Dying after you have done it.

 Sylv.

Till now I have liv'd only to myſelf, and my own Cruelty: for what Time I have left I'll live to Aminta: and if I can't to him, I'll live to his cold unhappy Body. So long and no longer will I ſtay in the World, and then end at the ſame Time his Obſequies, and my Life. Shepherd, what way leads to that Valley, that lies at the Foot of the Precipice.

 Meſſ.

That Way leads thither, and 'tis not very far from hence.

 Daph.

Let us go, I'll go with you and ſhew you the Way, for I well remember the Place.

 Sylv.

Adieu Shepherds, Mountains adieu, adieu ye Woods and Rivers, adieu.

 Meſſ.

She ſpeaks in ſuch Manner, as ſhews that ſhe is diſpos'd to take her laſt Farewel.
CHORO. CIò, che morte rallenta, Amor reſtringi, Amico tu di pace, ella di guerra, E del ſuo trionfar trionfi, e regni: E mentre due bell'alme annodi, e cingi, Così rendi ſembiante al ciel la terra, Che d'habitarla tu non fuggi, ò ſdegni Non ſon' ire là sù: gli humani ingegni Tu placidi ne rendi, e l' odio interno Sgombri, Signor, da' manſueti cori, Sgombri mille furori; E quaſi fai col tuo valor ſuperno, De le coſe mortali un giro eterno.
CHORUS.

LOVE, you rejoin what Death unbinds; you Friend of Peace, and She of War; you triumph and reign over her Conqueſt; and by binding and uniting gentle Minds; you ſo render Earth like to Heaven, that you don't diſdain to dwell therein: Hatred is baniſh'd Hence, you ſmooth the rugged Hearts of Men, and drive from gentle Breaſts all inward Rancour, and a thouſand Furies, and by your Power ſupreme, you cauſe an eternal Viciſſitude in the Affairs of Mortals.
ATTO QUINTO. SCENA PRIMA. Elpino. Choro. VEramente la legge, con che Amore Il ſuo imperio governa eternamente, Non è dura, nè obliqua, e l'opre ſue Piene di povidenza, e di miſtero Altri à torto condanna. O con quant' arte, E per che ignote ſtrade egli conduce L' huomo ad eſſer beato, e fra le gioie Del ſuo omoroſo Paradiſo il pone, Quand' ei più crede al fondo eſſer de' mali. Ecco precipitando, Aminta aſcende Al colmo, al ſommo d' ogni contentezza. O fortunato Aminta, ò te felice Tanto più, quanto miſero tu foſti. Hor co 'l tuo eſempio à me lice ſperare, Quando che ſia, che quella bella, & empia, Che ſotto il riſo di pietà ricopre, Il mortal ferro di ſua feritate, Sani le piaghe mie con pietà vera, Che con finta pietate al cor mi fece. Cho. Quel, che quì viene, è il ſaggio Elpino, e parla Corì d' Aminta, come vivo ei foſſe, Chiamandolo felice, e fortunato. Dura conditione de gli Amanti! Forſe egli ſtima fortunato Amante Chi muore, e morto al fin pietà ritrova Nel cor de la ſua Ninfa; e queſto chiama Paradiſo d' Amore, e queſto ſpera. Di che lieve mercè l' alato Dio I ſuoi ſervi contenta! Elpin, tu dunque In sì miſero ſtato ſei, che chiami Fortunata la morte miſerabile De l' infelice Aminta? un ſimil fine Sortir vorreſti? Elp. Amici, ſtate allegri; Che falſo è quel rumor, ch' à voi pervenne De la ſua morte. Cho. O che ci narri, e quanto Ci racconſoli: e non è dunque il vero, Che ſi precipitaſſe? Elp. Anzi è pur •… ro, Ma fù felice il precipitio; e ſotto Una dolente imagine di morte Gli recò vita, e gioia; egli hor ſi giace Nel ſeno accolto de l'amata Ninfa, Quanto ſpietata già, tanto hor pietoſa: E le raſciuga da' begli occhi il pianto Con la ſua bocca. Io à trovar ne vado Montano di lei padre, & à candurlo Colà avo' eſſi ſtanno: e ſolo il ſuo Volere è quel, che manca, e che prolunga Il concorde voler d' ambidue loro. Cho. Pari è l' età, la gentilezza è pari, E concorde il deſio: e 'l buon Montano Vago è d' haver nipoti, e di munire Di sì dolce preſidio la vecchiaia; Sì che farà del lor volere il ſuo. Ma tu, deh Elpin, narra, qual Dio, qual ſorte Nel periglioſo precipitio Aminta Habbia ſalvato. Elp. Io ſon contento: udite, Udite quel, che con queſt' occhi hò viſto: Io era anzi il mio ſpeco, che ſi giace Preſſo la valle, e quaſi à piè del colle, Dove la coſta face di ſe grembo: Quivi con Tirſi ragionando andava Pur di colei, che ne l' iſteſſa rete Lui prima, e me dapoi ravuolſe, e ſtrinſe; E preponendo à la ſua fuga, al ſuo Libero ſtato, il mio dolce ſervigio; Quando ci traſſe gli occhi ad alto un grido, E'l vederlo cader ſovra una macchia, Fà tutto un punto: ſporgea fuor del colle Poco di ſopra à noi d' herbe, e di ſpini, Ed altri rami ſtrettamente giunti, E quaſi in un teſſuti, un faſcio grande. Quivi, prima, che urtaſſe in altro luogo, A cader venne: e, bench' egli col peſo Lo sfondaſſe, e più giuſo indi cadeſſe, Quaſi ſu' noſtri piedi, quel ritegno Tanto d' impeto tolſe à la caduta, Ch' ella non fù mortal: fù nondimeno Grave sì, ch' ei giacque un' hora, e più, Stordito affatto, e di ſe ſteſſo fuori. Noi muti di pietate, e di ſtupore, Reſtammo â lo ſpettacolo improviſo, Riconoſcendo lui: mà, conoſcendo, Ch' egli morto non era, e che non era Per morir forſe, mitighiam l' affanno. Allhor Tir ſi mi diè notitia intiera De' ſuoi ſecreti, & angoſcioſi amori. Ma mentre procuriam di ravvivarlo Con diver ſi argomenti, havendo in tanto Già mandato à chiamar Alfeſibeo, A cui Febo inſegnò la Medica arte, Allhor, che diede à me la Cetra, e'l Plettro, Sopragiunſero inſieme Dafne, e Silvia: Che (come inteſi poi) givan cercando Quel corpo, che credean di vita privo. Mà, come Silvia il riconobbe, e vide Le belle guancie tenere d' Aminta Iſcolorite in sì leggiadri modi, Che viola non è che impallidiſca Sì dolcemente, e lui languir sì fatto, Che parea gia ne gli ultimi ſoſpiri Eſalar l' aima, in guiſa di Baccante Gridando, e percotendoſi il bel petto, Laſciò caderſi in ſu 'l giacente corpo, E giunſe viſo à viſo, e bocca à bocca. Cho. Hor non ritenne adunque la vergogna Lei, ch' è tanto ſevera, e ſchiva tanto? Elp. La vergogna ritien debile amore; Ma debil freno è di potente Amore: Poi, sì come ne gli occhi haveſſe un fonte, Inaffiar cominciò col pianto ſuo Il colui freddo viſo: e fù quell' acqua Di cotanta virtu, ch' egli rivenne; E gli occhi aprendo, un doloroſo Ohimè Spinſe dal petto interno: Ma quell' Ohimè, ch' amaro Così dal cor partiſſi, S' incontrò ne lo ſpirto De la ſua cara Silvia, e fù raccolto Da la ſoave bocca, e tutto quivi Subito raddolciſſi. Hor, chi potrebbe dir, come in quel punto Rimaneſſero entrambi? fatto certo Ciaſcun de l' altrui vita, e fatta certo Aminta de l' Amor de la ſua Ninfa? E viſtoſi con lei congiunto, e ſtretto? Chi è ſervo d' Amor, per ſe lo ſtimi; Ma non ſi può ſtimar, non che ridire. Cho. Aminta è ſano sì, ch' egli fia fuori Del riſchio de la vita? Elp. Aminta è ſano, Se non ch' alquanto pur graffiat' hà 'l viſo, Ed alquanto dirotta la perſona, Ma ſarà nulla, & ei per nulla il tiene. Felice lùi, che sì gran ſegno hà dato D' Amore, e de l' amor il dolce hor guſta A cui gli affanni ſcorſi, & i perigli Fanno ſoave, e dolce condimento. Mà reſtate con Dio, ch' io vo' ſeguire Il mio viaggio à ritrouar Montano.
ACT the FIFTH. SCENE the FIRST. Elpino. Chorus. Elpi.

DOUBTLESS the Law, whereby Love eternally governs his Empire, is neither hard nor unjuſt; and Men wrongfully condemn thoſe Works of his, which are full of Providence, and Myſtery. O! with what Art, and by what unknown Paths, he conducts a Man to Happineſs, and places him amidſt the Joys of his amorous Paradiſe, when he thinks himſelf at the loweſt Pitch of Miſery. Behold, Aminta by his fall aſcends to the Top, and Summit of all Delight. O Fortunate Aminta! by ſo much the more Happy now, as you was Miſerable before. Now your Example gives me alſo Hopes, that ſome time or other, the Cruel Fair one, who, under a friendly Smile, conceals the fatal Dagger of her Cruelty, will with real Pity heal the Wounds, which ſhe has made in my Heart, by a pretended one.

 Chor.

He, who comes yonder, is the wiſe Elpin, and he ſpeaks of Aminta, as if he was Alive, calling him Happy and Fortunate. O hard Condition of Lovers! Perhaps he thinks him a fortunate Lover, who Dies, and at length finds Pity in the Heart of his Nymph after he is dead; and this he calls the Paradiſe of Love, and hopes the ſame to himſelf. With what ſlender Reward does the Winged-God content his Servants? Are you then, Elpin, in ſuch miſerable State your ſelf, as to call the unhappy Death of wretched Aminta, fortunate? Would you be content with the ſame Fate?

 Elp.

Cheer up, my Friends, the Report, which came to you of his Death, is falſe.

 Chor.

How comfortable to us is that News which you relate, is it not true then that he leapt from the Precipice?

 Elp.

That's very true indeed, but the Precipice was Propitious to him, and under the ſad Image of Death reach'd out to him Life and Joy. He is at this Time lying cloſe on the Boſom of his beloved Nymph, who is by ſo much the more Compaſſionate now, as ſhe was Cruel before; and ſhe's wiping the Tears off his Eyes with her Mouth: and I am going to find out Montanus her Father, to conduct him where they are; for 'tis only his Conſent, which is wanting, and which prolongs the Accompliſhment of their mutual Wiſhes.

 Chor.

Their Age, their Birth, and their Deſire agree; and good Montanus is deſirous of having Poſterity, and arming his old Age with ſo ſweet a Guard; ſo that he'll make their Conſent his own. But pray tell us, Elpin, what God, what Fortune preſerv'd Aminta in his dangerous Fall from the Precipice?

 Elp.

I am content, hear me, hear what I ſaw with my own Eyes; I ſtood before my Cave which lies near the Valley, and at the Foot of the Hill, where the loweſt Declivity makes a ſhelving Lap. There I was diſcourſing with Thyrſis, about her, who in the ſame Snare, firſt took and Captivated him, and afterwards me: and preferring my ſweet Servitude to his Eſcape, and State of Freedom, when a Shreek drew our Eyes upwards, and all in an inſtant we ſaw a Man fall from the Summit, and light upon a Thicket: There grows on the ſide of the Hill, a little above us, a large Tuft of Plants and Thorns, and other Boughs, cloſely Join'd together, and Interwoven with each other; thereon he fell, before he ſtruck on any other Place, and though he made Way through them with his Weight, and fell down to the Ground before our Feet, yet that Stop ſo abated the Force of the Fall, that it prov'd not Mortal; however it was ſo dangerous, that he lay an Hour or more quite Stunn'd and out of his Senſes. We knowing him, were ſtruck Dumb with Pity at the unexpected ſight; but perceiving that he was not Dead, and perhaps not like to Die, we moderated our Grief. Then Thyrſis gave me a full Account of his Secret and Tormenting Love: But while we endeavour'd to revive him by different Means, having at the ſame Time ſent for Alfeſibeus, whom Phoebus taught the Art of Phyſick, when he gave me the Lute and the Lyre, Daphne and Sylvia came up together to us; who (as I heard ſince) were coming to ſearch for the Body, which they ſuppos'd Dead. But when Sylvia knew and ſaw the beautiful tender Cheeks of Aminta diſcolour'd, like the Violet, which looks ſo ſweetly Pale, and ſaw him languiſhing in ſuch a Manner, that his Soul ſeem'd to be breathing out in his laſt Sighs; She, like a Bacchanal, crying and beating her Breaſt, let herſelf fall upon his Body, and Join'd Face to Face, and Mouth to Mouth.

 Chor.

Did not Modeſty then retain her, who is ſo Severe and Coy?

 Elp.

Modeſty may reſtrain a feeble Paſſion, but 'tis too weak a Curb for Powerful Love: She, as if ſhe had a Fountain in her Eyes, began to bath his cold Face with her Tears, and that Water was of ſo great Vertue that he reviv'd, and opening his Eyes, ſigh'd forth a dolorous Alas! from the Bottom of his Breaſt. But that Alas! which parted bitter from the Heart, met the Breath of his Dear Sylvia; and being caught by her ſweet Mouth, was all of ſudden Sweeten'd there. Who can expreſs the Condition of both the Lovers at that Time? When one was aſſur'd of the others Life, and Aminta aſſur'd of the Love of his Nymph, and found himſelf cloſe within her Arms. He that is a Servant of Love may from himſelf imagin it, but none elſe can conceive it, much leſs expreſs it.

 Chor.

Is Aminta ſo well then, that he is in no Danger of his Life?

 Elp.

Aminta is ſafe and ſound, he has only Scratch'd his Face a little, and ſomewhat Bruis'd himſelf, but it will be nothing; and he does not value it: Happy is he who has given ſo great Proof of his Love, and now taſtes its Sweets; to which extreme Grief and Danger give a ſweet and delightful Reliſh. But, Adieu, I'll go on my way, to find out Montanus.

CHORO. NOn sô ſe il molto amaro, Che provato ha coſtui ſervendo', amando, Piangendo, e diſperando, Raddolcito puot' eſſer pienamente D' alcun dolce preſente: Ma, ſe più caro viene, E piu ſiguſta dopo'l male il bene; Io non ti chieggio; Amore, Queſta beatitudine maggiore, Bea pur gli altri in tal guiſa: Me la mia Ninfa accoglia, Dopo brevi preghiere, e ſervir breve; E ſiano i condimenti De le noſtre dolcezze, Non sì gravi tormenti Ma ſoavi diſdegni, E ſoavi ripulſe, Riſſe, e guerre, à cui ſegua, Reintegrando i cori, ò pace, ò tregua. IL FINE.
CHORUS.

I Know not whether all the Bitter, this Lover has taſted in Service, Courtſhip, Mourning and Deſpair, can be ſufficiently ſweeten'd by any preſent Sweets. If Pleaſure comes more grateful, and reliſhes better after Pain, Love, I don't crave this eminent Happineſs, bleſs others in that Manner; as for me, let my Nymph receive me after ſhort Entreaties, and ſhort Service; and may the Seaſoning of our Enjoyments be, not ſuch grievous Torments, but ſweet Diſdaining, ſweet Repulſes, Quarrels and Wars, to which may ſoon ſucceed either Peace, or a Truce, which may reunite our Hearts.

 FINIS.
To the Tranſlator of Taſſo's Aminta. WE Britiſh Lovers aukwardly complain Of Female Pride, and undeſerv'd Diſdain: So faint our Language, tho' our Hearts ſincere, Our cold Addreſs acquits the gen'rous Fair. Their conſcious Beauty claims a decent Pride, And where it yields wou'd fain be juſtified. A Virgin Breaſt no Rigour entertains, Proof to the Charms of Taſſo's melting Strains. Cou'd every Lover like Aminta plead, The Fate of Female Pride were ſoon decreed. Venus to fix her Empire o'er Mankind; Her Cestus to the Tuſcan Muſe reſign'd; And Love now Meditates a ſurer Blow From Taſſo's Lyre than his own golden Bow. I hear the Whiſpers of the conſcious Grove. The Fountains, Trees and Rocks, all tun'd to Love. But hark! what Voice ſo ſoftly ſweet complains Of Nymphs obdurate, and of dying Swains? Too well I feel the Magick of that Tongue And Sympathy's the Eccho to his Song, Bleſt Italy! thy Genius now upbraids The Savage Fame of rugged Roman Shades; Thy Sons far nobler Wars and Conqueſts boaſt, The World for Muſick, and for Love well-loſt You, gallant Frenchman, whom the Fates deſign The rough-hewn Britiſh Vertue to refine; In pity to our cold unactive Clay, Celeſtial Beams of Taſſo's Fire convey. May ev'ry God the bold Attempt approve; But if they puniſh, be the Vulture Love. Fond as Narciſſus of reflected Charms, The Mirrour of thy Page e'en Taſſo warms. That Love prov'd mortal to the deſtin'd Boy, The Poets Fates their kinder Powers employ, And Taſſo gazes with immortal Joy.