Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra

Being now free and relieved from what they had to do that night with their flocks, they arranged to retire and withdraw with Teolinda to a spot where they might, without being hindered by anyone, hear what was lacking of the issue of her love. And so they betook themselves to a little garden by Galatea's house; and, the three seating themselves beneath a stately green vine which entwined itself in an intricate manner along some wooden network, Teolinda repeated once more some words of what she had said before and went on, saying:

'After our dance and Artidoro's song were ended, as I have already told you, fair shepherdesses, it seemed good to all of us to return to the village to perform in the temple the solemn rites, and because it likewise seemed to us that the solemnity of the feast in some way gave us liberty; but not being so punctilious as to seclusion, we enjoyed ourselves with more freedom. Wherefore we all, shepherds and shepherdesses, in a confused mass, with gladness and rejoicing returned to the village, speaking each with the one who pleased him best. Fate, and my care, and Artidoro's solicitude also ordained that, without any display of artifice in the matter, we two kept apart from the rest in such a manner that on the way we might safely have said more than what we did say, if each of us had not respected what we owed to ourselves and to each other. At length I said to him, to draw him out, as the saying goes: "The days you have spent in our village, Artidoro, will be years to you, since in your own you must have things to occupy you which must give you greater pleasure." "All that I can hope for in my life," replied Artidoro, "would I exchange, if only the days I have to spend here might be, not years, but centuries, since, when they come to an end, I do not hope to pass others that may give me greater joy." "Is the joy you feel so great," I replied, "at seeing our festivals?" "It does not arise from this," he answered, "but from regarding the beauty of the shepherdesses of your village." "In truth," I retorted, "pretty girls must be wanting in yours." "The truth is that they are not wanting there," he replied, "but that here there is a superabundance, so that one single one I have seen is enough for those of yonder place to count themselves ugly compared to her." "Your courtesy makes you say this, oh Artidoro," I replied, "for I know full well that in this hamlet there is no one who excels so much as you say." "I know better that what I say is true," he answered, "since I have seen the one and beheld the others." "Perhaps you beheld her from afar, and the distance between," said I, "made you see a different thing from what it really was." "In the same way," he replied, "as I see and am beholding you now, I beheld and saw her. Happy should I be to have been mistaken, if her disposition does not agree with her beauty." "It would not grieve me to be the one you say, for the pleasure she must feel who sees herself proclaimed and accounted beautiful." "I would much rather that you were not," replied Artidoro. "Then what would you lose," I answered, "if instead of not being the one you say, I were?" "What I have gained, I know full well," he replied, "as to what I have to lose, I am doubtful and in fear." "You know well how to play the lover, Artidoro," said I. "You know better how to inspire love, Teolinda," he replied. Thereon I said to him, "I do not know if I should tell you, Artidoro, that I wish neither of us to be deceived." Whereto he replied, "I am quite sure that I am not deceived, and it is in your hands to seek to undeceive yourself as often as you seek to make trial of the pure desire I have to serve you." "I will reward you for that," I answered, "with the same desire; for it seems to me that it would not be well to remain indebted to anybody where the cost is so small." At this moment, without his having a chance to reply to me, the head-shepherd Eleuco came up, saying in a loud voice: "Ho, gay shepherds and fair shepherdesses, make them hear our approach in the village, you singing some chant, maidens, so that we can reply to you, in order that the people of the hamlet may see how much we who are on our way here, do to make our festival joyous." And because in nothing that Eleuco commanded did he fail to be obeyed, straightway the shepherds beckoned to me to begin; and so, availing myself of the opportunity, and profiting by what had passed with Artidoro, I commenced this chant:

Whosoever by much striving
Would the perfect lover be
Honour needs and secrecy.

Wouldst thou seek with heart elate
Love's sweet joy to reach aright,
Take as key to thy delight
Honour, secrecy as gate.
Who thereby would enter straight,
Wise and witty though he be
Honour needs and secrecy.

Whoso loveth human beauty,
With reproach is oft confounded,
If his passion be not bounded
By his honour and his duty:
And such noble love as booty
Winneth every man, if he
Honour have and secrecy.

Everyone this truth hath known,
And it cannot be denied,
That speech oft will lose the bride
Whom a silent tongue hath won,
And he will all conflict shun
Who a lover is, if he
Honour have and secrecy.

Chattering tongues, audacious eyes,
May have brought a thousand cares,
May have set a thousand snares
For the soul, and so it dies.
Whoso would his miseries
Lessen, and from strife be free,
Honour needs and secrecy.

'I know not, fair shepherdesses, if in singing what you have heard I succeeded; but I know very well that Artidoro knew how to profit by it, since all the time he was in our village, though he often spoke to me, it was with so much reserve, secrecy, and modesty that idle eyes and chattering tongues neither had nor saw aught to say that might be prejudicial to our honour. But in the fear I had that, when the period Artidoro had promised to spend in our village was ended, he would have to go to his own, I sought, though at the cost of my modesty, that my heart should not remain with the regret of having kept silence on what it were useless to speak afterwards, when Artidoro had gone. And so, after my eyes gave leave for his most beauteous eyes to gaze on me lovingly, our tongues were not still, nor failed to show with words what up till then the eyes had so clearly declared by sign. Finally, you must know, friends, that one day when I found myself by chance alone with Artidoro, he disclosed to me, with tokens of an ardent love and courtesy, the true and honourable love he felt for me; and though I would have wished to play the reluctant prude, yet, because I was afraid, as I have already told you, that he would go, I did not wish to disdain him nor to dismiss him, and also because it seemed to me that the lack of sympathy, inspired or felt at the beginning of a love-affair, is the reason why those who are not very experienced in their passion, abandon and leave the enterprise they have begun. Wherefore I gave him answer such as I desired to give him. We agreed in the resolve that he should repair to his village, and a few days after should by some honourable mediation send to ask me in marriage from my parents; whereat he was so happy and content that he did not cease to call the day fortunate on which his eyes beheld me. As for me, I can tell you that I would not have changed my happiness for any other that could be imagined; for I was sure that Artidoro's worth and good qualities were such that my father would be happy to receive him as a son-in-law. The happy climax you have heard, shepherdesses, was the climax of our love, for only two or three days remained before Artidoro's departure, when fortune, as one who never set bounds to her designs, ordained that a sister of mine, a little younger than I, should return to our village from another where she had been for some days, in the house of an aunt of ours who was ill. And in order that you may see, ladies, what strange and unthought-of chances happen in the world, I would have you know a fact which I think will not fail to cause in you some strange feeling of wonder: it is that this sister of mine I have told you of, who up till then had been away, resembles me so much in face, stature, grace, and spirit (if I have any), that not merely those of our hamlet, but our very parents have often mistaken us, and spoken to the one for the other, so that, not to fall into this error, they distinguished us by the differences of our dresses, which were different. In one thing only, as I believe, did Nature make us quite different, namely, in disposition, my sister's being harsher than my happiness required, since, because of her being less compassionate than sharp-witted, I shall have to weep as long as my life endures. It happened, then, that as soon as my sister came to the village desiring to resume the rustic duties that were pleasing to her, she rose next day earlier than I wished, and went off to the meadow with the very sheep I used to lead; and though I wished to follow her by reason of the happiness which followed to me from the sight of my Artidoro, for some reason or other my mother kept me at home the whole of that day, which was the last of my joys. For that night my sister, having brought back her flock, told me as in secret that she had to tell me something of great importance to me. I, who might have imagined anything rather than what she said to me, arranged that we should soon see each other alone, when with face somewhat moved, I hanging on her words, she began to say to me: "I know not, sister mine, what to think of your honour, nor yet whether I should be silent on what I cannot refrain from telling you, in order to see if you give me any excuse for the fault I imagine you are guilty of: and though, as a younger sister, I should have addressed you with more respect, you must forgive me; for in what I have seen to-day you will find the excuse for what I say to you." When I heard her speaking in this way I knew not what to answer her except to tell her to go on with her discourse. "You must know, sister," she proceeded, "that this morning when I went forth with our sheep to the meadow, and was going alone with them along the bank of our cool Henares, as I passed through the glade of counsel there came out towards me a shepherd whom I can truly swear I have never seen in our district; and with a strange freedom of manner he began to greet me so lovingly that I stood shamed and confused, not knowing what to answer him. Failing to take warning from the anger which I fancy I showed in my face, he came up to me, saying to me: 'What silence is this, fair Teolinda, last refuge of this soul that adores you?' And he was on the point of taking my hands to kiss them, adding to what I have said a whole list of endearments, which it seemed he brought ready prepared. At once I understood, seeing that he was falling into the error many others have fallen into, and thinking he was speaking with you; whence a suspicion arose in me that if you, sister, had never seen him, nor treated him with familiarity, it would not be possible for him to have the boldness to speak to you in that way. Whereat I felt so great a rage that I could scarcely form words to answer him, but at last I replied to him in the way his boldness deserved, and as it seemed to me you, sister, would have had to answer anyone speaking to you so freely; and if it had not been that the shepherdess Licea came up at that moment, I had added such words that he would truly have repented addressing his to me. And the best of it is that I never chose to tell him of the error he was in, but that he believed I was Teolinda, as if he had been speaking with you yourself. At last he went off, calling me thankless, ungrateful, one who showed little return; and from what I can judge from the expression he bore, I assure you, sister, he will not dare speak to you again though he should meet you all alone. What I want to know is who is this shepherd, and what converse has been between you, whence it comes that he dare speak to you with such freedom?" To your great discretion, discreet shepherdesses, I leave it to imagine what my soul would feel on hearing what my sister told me: but at length, dissembling as best I could, I said to her: "You have done me the greatest favour in the world, sister Leonarda," (for so was called the disturber of my peace) "in having by your harsh words rid me of the disgust and turmoil caused me by the importunities you mention of this shepherd. He is a stranger who for eight days has been in our village, whose thoughts are full of arrogance and folly, so great that wherever he sees me he treats me as you have seen, giving himself up to the belief that he has won my good-will; and though I have undeceived him, perhaps with harsher words than you said to him, nevertheless he does not cease to persist in his vain purpose. I assure you, sister, that I wish the new day were here that I might go and tell him that if he does not desist from his vain hope, he may expect the end to it which my words have always indicated to him." And it was indeed true, sweet friends, that I would have given all that might have been asked of me, if it had but been dawn, only that I might go and see my Artidoro, and undeceive him of the error he had fallen into, fearing lest through the bitter and petulant reply my sister had given him he should be disdainful and do something to prejudice our agreement. The long nights of rough December were not more irksome to the lover hoping some happiness from the coming day than was that night distasteful to me, though it was one of the short nights of summer, since I longed for the new light to go and see the light whereby my eyes saw. And so, before the stars wholly lost their brightness, being even in doubt whether it were night or day, constrained by my longing, on the pretext of going to pasture my sheep, I went forth from the village, and hurrying the flock more than usual to urge it on, reached the spot where at other times I was wont to find Artidoro, which I found deserted and without anything to give me indication of him; whereat my heart throbbed violently within me, for it almost guessed the evil which was in store for it. How often, seeing that I did not find him, did I wish to beat the air with my voice, calling out my Artidoro's beloved name, and to say, "Come, my joy, I am the true Teolinda, who longs for you and loves you more than herself!" But fear lest my words might be heard by another than him, made me keep more silent than I should have wished. And so, after I had traversed once and yet again all the bank and wood of the gentle Henares, I sat me down, wearied, at the foot of a green willow, waiting until the bright sun should with his rays spread over all the face of the earth, so that in his brightness there might not remain thicket, cave, copse, cottage, or hut where I might not go seeking my joy. But scarcely had the new light given opportunity to distinguish colours, when straightway a rough-barked poplar, which was before me, presented itself to my eyes: on it and on many others I saw some letters written, which I at once recognised to be from Artidoro's hand, set there; and rising in haste to see what they said, I saw, fair shepherdesses, that it was this:

Shepherdess, alone in thee
Do I find that beauty rare
Which to naught can I compare
Save to thine own cruelty.
Thou wert fickle, loyal I,
Thus thou sowedst with open hand
Promises upon the sand;
Down the wind my hope did fly.

Never had I thought to know
That thy sweet and joyous "yes"
Would be followed—I confess—
By a sad and bitter "no."
Yet I had not been undone,
Had the eyes that gazed on thee
Kept in sight prosperity,
Not thy loveliness alone.

But the more thy mystic grace
Speaks of promise and of gladness,
All the more I sink in sadness,
All my wits are in a maze.
Ah, those eyes! they proved untrue,
Though compassionate in seeming.
Tell me, eyes so falsely beaming,
How they sinned that gaze on you.

Is there man, cruel shepherdess,
But thou couldst beguile his fancies
By thy staid and modest glances,
By thy voice's sweet caress?
This indeed have I believed,
That thou couldst have, days ago,
Held me, hadst thou wished it so,
Captive, vanquished, and deceived.

Lo, the letters I shall write
On the rough bark of this tree—
Firmer than did faith with thee,
Will they grow in time's despite.
On thy lips thy faith was set,
On thy promises so vain;
Firmer 'gainst the wind-tossed main
Is the rock the gale hath met.

Fearsome art thou, full of bane
As the viper which we press
Under foot—ah, shepherdess,
False as fair, my charm and pain!
Whatsoe'er thy cruelty
Biddeth, I without delay
Will perform; to disobey
Thy command was ne'er in me.

I shall far in exile die
That contented thou mayst live,
But beware lest Love perceive
How thou scorn'st my misery.
In Love's dance, though Love may place
Loyal heart in bondage strait,
Yet it may not change its state,
But must stay, to shun disgrace.

Thou in beauty dost excel
Every maiden on this earth,
And I thought that from thy worth
Thou wert firm in love as well.
Now my love the truth doth know
'Twas that Nature wished to limn
In thy face an angel, Time
In thy mood that changes so.

Wouldst thou know where I have gone,
Where my woeful life shall end,
Mark my blood, thy footsteps bend
By the path my blood hath shown.
And though naught with thee doth well
Of our love and harmony
Do not to the corse deny
E'en the sad and last farewell.

Thou wilt be without remorse,
Harder than the diamond stone,
If thou makest not thy moan,
When thou dost behold my corse.
If in life thou hatedst me,
Then amidst my hapless plight
I shall count my death delight
To be dead and wept by thee.

'What words will suffice, shepherdesses, to make you understand the extremity of grief that seized upon my heart, when I clearly understood that the verses I had read were my beloved Artidoro's? But there is no reason why I should make too much of it to you, since it did not go as far as was needed to end my life, which thenceforward I have held in such loathing, that I would not feel, nor could there come to me, a greater pleasure than to lose it. So great and of such a kind were the sighs I then gave forth, the tears I shed, the piteous cries I uttered, that none who had heard me but would have taken me for mad. In short, I remained in such a state, that, without considering what I owed to my honour, I determined to forsake my dear native land, beloved parents and cherished brothers, and to leave my simple flock to take care of itself; and, without heeding aught else save what I deemed to be necessary for my satisfaction, that very morning, embracing a thousand times the bark where my Artidoro's hand had been, I departed from that place with the intent to come to these banks where I know Artidoro has and makes his abode, to see if he has been so inconsiderate and cruel to himself, as to put into practice what he left written in his last verses: for if it were so, henceforward I promise you, my friends, that the desire and haste with which I shall follow him in death, shall be no less than the willingness with which I have loved him in life. But, woe is me! I verily believe there is no foreboding which may be to my hurt but will turn out true, for it is now nine days since I came to these cool banks, and all this while I have learnt no tidings of what I desire; and may it please God that when I learn them, it may not be the worst I forebode. Here you see, discreet maidens, the mournful issue of my life of love. I have now told you who I am and what I seek; if you have any tidings of my happiness, may fortune grant you the greatest you desire, so that you do not withhold it from me.'

With such tears did the loving shepherdess accompany the words she uttered, that he would have had a heart of steel who had not grieved at them. Galatea and Florisa, who were naturally of a pitying disposition, could not hold theirs back, nor yet did they fail to comfort her with the most soothing and helpful words in their power, counselling her to remain some days in their company; that perhaps her fortune would in the meantime cause her to learn some tidings of Artidoro, since Heaven would not allow a shepherd so discreet as she depicted him by reason of so strange an error to end the course of his youthful years; that it might be that Artidoro, his thought having in course of time returned to better course and purpose, might return to see the native land he longed for and his sweet friends; and that she might, therefore, hope to find him there better than elsewhere. The shepherdess, somewhat consoled by these and other reasonings, was pleased to remain with them, thanking them for the favour they did her, and for the desire they showed to secure her happiness. At this moment the serene night, urging on her starry car through the sky, gave token that the new day was approaching; and the shepherdesses, in desire and need of rest, arose and repaired from the cool garden to their dwellings. But scarce had the bright sun with his warm rays scattered and consumed the dense mist, which on cool mornings is wont to spread through the air, when the three shepherdesses, leaving their lazy couches, returned to the wonted pursuit of grazing their flock, Galatea and Florisa with thoughts far different from that cherished by the fair Teolinda, who went her way so sad and thoughtful that it was a marvel. And for this reason, Galatea, to see if she might in some way distract her, begged her to lay aside her melancholy for a while, and be so good as to sing some verses to the sound of Florisa's pipe. To this Teolinda replied:

'If I thought that the great cause I have for weeping, despite the slight cause I have for singing, would be diminished in any way, you might well forgive me, fair Galatea, for not doing what you bid me; but as I already know by experience that what my tongue utters in song, my heart confirms with weeping, I will do what you wish, since thereby I shall satisfy your desire without going contrary to mine.'

And straightway the shepherdess Florisa played her pipe, to the sound of which Teolinda sang this sonnet:

TEOLINDA.

Whither a flagrant cruel lie doth go,

This have I learned from my grievous state,

And how Love with my hurt doth meditate

The life that fear denies me, to bestow.

To dwell within my flesh my soul doth cease,

Following his soul that by some mystic fate

In pain hath placed it, and in woe so great

That happiness brings strife, and sorrow peace.

If I do live, 'tis hope that makes me live,

Hope, that, though slight and weak, doth upward mount,

Clinging unto the strength my love doth give.

Ah firm beginning, transformation frail,

Bitterest total of a sweet account!

Amidst your persecutions life must fail.

Teolinda had scarcely ceased singing the sonnet you have heard, when, on their right hand, on the slope of the cool vale, the three shepherdesses became aware of the sound of a pipe, whose sweetness was such that all halted and stood still, to enjoy the sweet harmony with more attention. And anon they heard the sound of a small rebeck, attuning itself to that of the pipe with grace and skill so great that the two shepherdesses Galatea and Florisa stood rapt, wondering what shepherds they might be who played with such harmony; for they clearly saw that none of those they knew was so skilled in music, unless it were Elicio.

'At this moment,' said Teolinda, 'if my ears deceive me not, fair shepherdesses, I think you now have on your banks the two renowned and famous shepherds Thyrsis and Damon, natives of my country—at least Thyrsis is, who was born in famous Compluto, a town founded on our Henares' banks; and Damon, his intimate and perfect friend, if I am not ill informed, draws his origin from the mountains of LeÓn, and was nurtured in Mantua Carpentanea, the renowned. Both are so excellent in every manner of discretion, learning and praiseworthy pursuits, that not only are they known within the boundaries of our district, but they are known and esteemed throughout all the boundaries of the land; and think not, shepherdesses, that the genius of these two shepherds extends merely to knowing what befits the shepherd's lot, for it passes so far beyond that they teach and dispute of the hidden things of Heaven and the unknown things of earth, in terms and modes agreed upon. And I am perplexed to think what cause will have moved them to leave, Thyrsis his sweet and beloved Phyllis, Damon his fair and modest Amaryllis; Phyllis by Thyrsis, Amaryllis by Damon so beloved, that there is in our village or its environs no person, nor in the district a wood, meadow, spring or stream, that does not know full well their warm and modest love.'

'Cease at present, Teolinda,' said Florisa, 'to praise these shepherds to us, for it profits us more to hear what they sing as they come, since it seems to me that they have no less charm in their voices than in the music of their instruments.'

'What will you say,' Teolinda then replied, 'when you see all this surpassed by the excellence of their poetry, which is of such a kind that for the one it has already gained the epithet of divine, and for the other that of superhuman?'

The shepherdesses, whilst engaged in this discourse, saw, on the slope of the vale along which they themselves were going, two shepherds appear, of gallant bearing and abounding spirit, one a little older than the other; so well dressed, though in shepherd's garb, that in their carriage and appearance they seemed more like brave courtiers than mountain herdsmen. Each wore a well-cut garment of finest white wool, trimmed with tawny red and grey, colours which their shepherdesses fancied most. Each had hanging from his shoulder a wallet no less handsome and adorned than the garments. They came crowned with green laurel and cool ivy, with their twisted crooks placed under their arms. They brought no companion, and came so rapt in their music that they were for a long while without seeing the fixed shepherdesses, who were wending their way along the same slope, wondering not a little at the gentle grace and charm of the shepherds, who, with voices attuned to the same chant, one beginning and the other replying, sang this which follows:

DAMON. THYRSIS.

DAMON.

Thyrsis, who dost in loneliness depart

With steps emboldened, though against thy will,

From yonder light wherewith remains thine heart,

Why dost thou not the air with mourning fill?

So great indeed thy cause is to complain

Of the fierce troubler of thy life so still.

THYRSIS.

Damon, once let the life be rent in twain,

If the grief-stricken body go away,

And yet the higher half behind remain,

What virtue or what being will essay

My tongue to move, already counted dead?

For where my soul was, there my life doth stay.

I see, I hear, I feel, 'tis truth indeed,

And yet I am a phantom formed by love,

My only stay is hope that hath not fled.

DAMON.

Oh, happy Thyrsis, how thy lot doth move

My soul to envy! rightly, for I know

That it doth rise all lovers' lots above.

Absence alone displeaseth thee, and so

Firm and secure thou hast in Love a stay

Wherewith thy soul rejoiceth 'midst its woe.

Alas! where'er I go I fall a prey

Beneath the chilly scornful hand of fear,

Or with its cruel lance disdain doth slay!

Count life as death; although it doth appear

Living to thee, 'tis like a lamp that dies

And as it dies, the flame burneth more clear.

My wearied soul doth not in time that flies,

Nor in the means that absence offers, find

Its consolation 'midst its miseries.

THYRSIS.

Love that is firm and pure hath ne'er declined

Through bitter absence; rather memory

Fosters its growth by faith within the mind.

The perfect lover sees no remedy

Relief unto the loving load to give,

However short or long the absence be.

For memory, which only doth perceive

What Love hath set within the soul, doth show

The lovÈd image to the mind alive.

And then in soothing silence makes him know

His fortune, good or ill, as from her eye

A loving or a loveless glance doth go.

And if thou markest that I do not sigh,

'Tis that my Phyllis doth my singing guide,

Here in my breast my Phyllis I descry.

DAMON.

If in her lovely face thou hadst espied

Signs of displeasure when thou didst depart

Far from the joy that thee hath satisfied,

Full well I know, my Thyrsis, that thine heart

Would be as full as mine of bitter woe—

Love's bliss was thine, but mine Love's cruel smart—

THYRSIS.

With words like these I pass the time, and so,

Damon, I temper absence's extreme,

And gladly do remain, or come, or go.

For she who was from birth a living theme,

Type of the deathless beauty in the skies,

Worthy of marble, temple, diadem,

Even my Phyllis, blinds th' covetous eyes,

With her rare virtue and her modest zeal,

So that I fear not; none will wrest the prize.

The strait subjection that my soul doth feel

Before hers, and the purpose raised on high,

That in her worship doth its goal reveal,

And more, the fact that Phyllis knows that I

Love her, and doth return my love—all these

Banish my grief and bring felicity.

DAMON.

Blest Thyrsis, Thyrsis crowned with happiness!

Mayst thou enjoy for ages yet to come

Thy bliss 'midst Love's delight and certain peace.

But I, whom brief and unrelenting doom

To such a doubtful pass as this hath led,

In merit poor, in cares rich, near the tomb.

'Tis good that I should die, since, being dead,

Nor cruel Amaryllis shall I fear

Nor Love ungrateful whereby I am sped.

Oh, fairer than the heavens, or sun's bright sphere,

Yet harder far than adamant to me,

Ready to hurt, but slow to bring me cheer,

What wind from south or north or east on thee

Harshness did blow, that thou didst thus ordain,

That from thy presence I should ever flee?

I, shepherdess, in lands across the main

Far off shall die—thy will thou hast avowed—

Doomed unto death, to fetter, yoke and chain.

THYRSIS.

Since Heaven in its mercy hath endowed

Thee, Damon, with such blessings, dearest friend,

With intellect so sprightly and so proud,

Yet it with thy lament and sorrow blend,

Remember that the sun's all-scorching ray

And ice's chill at last shall have an end.

Destiny does not always choose one way

Whereby with smooth, reposeful steps to bring

Happiness to us—mark the words I say—

For sometimes by unthought-of suffering,

In seeming far from pleasure and from joy,

It leads us to the blisses poets sing.

But come, good friend, thy memory employ

Upon the modest joys that Love once gave,

Pledges of victory without alloy.

And, if thou canst, a pastime seek, to save

Thy soul from brooding, whilst the time of scorn

Goes by, and we attain the boon we crave.

Unto the ice that by degrees doth burn,

Unto the fire that chills beyond degree,

What bard shall place degree thereto, or bourne?

Vainly he wearies, vainly watcheth he

Who, out of favour, yet Love's web doth seek

To cut according to his fantasy;

He is, though strong in Love, in fortune weak.

Here ceased the exquisite song of the graceful shepherds, but not as regards the pleasure the shepherdesses had felt at listening to it; rather they would have wished it not to end so soon, for it was one of those lays that are but rarely heard. At this moment the two gallant shepherds bent their steps in the direction where the shepherdesses were, whereat Teolinda was grieved, for she feared to be recognised by them; and for this reason she asked Galatea that they might go away from that place. She did it, and the shepherds passed by, and as they passed Galatea heard Thyrsis saying to Damon:

'These banks, friend Damon, are those on which the fair Galatea grazes her flocks, and to which the loving Elicio brings his, your intimate and special friend, to whom may fortune give such issue in his love as his honourable and good desires deserve. For many days I have not known to what straits his lot has brought him; but from what I have heard tell of the coy disposition of discreet Galatea, for whom he is dying, I fear he must be full of woe long before he is content.'

'I would not be astonished at this,' replied Damon, 'for with all the graces and special gifts wherewith Heaven has enriched Galatea, it has after all made her a woman, in which frail object is not always the gratitude that is due, and which he needs whose smallest risk for them is life. What I have heard tell of Elicio's love is that he adores Galatea without passing beyond the bounds that are due to her modesty, and that Galatea's discretion is so great that she does not give proofs of loving or of loathing Elicio; and so the hapless swain must go on subject to a thousand contrary chances, waiting on time and fortune (means hopeless enough) to shorten or lengthen his life, but which are more likely to shorten it than to sustain it.'

So far Galatea could hear what the shepherds, as they went along, said of her and of Elicio, whereat she felt no small pleasure, understanding that what report published of her affairs was what was due to her pure intent; and from that moment she determined not to do for Elicio anything that might give report a chance of speaking false in what it published of her thoughts. At this moment the two brave shepherds were gradually wending their way with loitering steps towards the village, desiring to be present at the nuptials of the happy shepherd Daranio, who was marrying Silveria of the green eyes, and this was one of the reasons why they had left their flocks, and were coming to Galatea's hamlet. But, when but little of the way remained to be covered, they heard on its right side the sound of a rebeck which sounded harmoniously and sweetly; and Damon stopping caught Thyrsis by the arm, and said to him:

'Stay, listen a while, Thyrsis, for if my ears do not deceive me, the sound that reaches them is that from the rebeck of my good friend Elicio, on whom Nature bestowed so much charm in many different arts, as you will hear if you listen to him, and learn if you speak with him.'

'Think not, Damon,' replied Thyrsis, 'that I have yet to learn Elicio's good qualities, for days ago fame clearly revealed them to me. But be silent now, and let us listen to see if he sings aught that may give us some sure token of his present fortune.'

'You say well,' answered Damon, 'but it will be necessary, the better to hear him, for us to go in among these branches so that we may listen to him more closely without being seen by him.'

They did so, and placed themselves in so good a position that no word that Elicio said or sang, failed to be heard by them and even noted. Elicio was in the company of his friend Erastro, from whom he was rarely separated by reason of the pleasure and enjoyment he received from his excellent converse, and all or most of the day was spent by them in singing and playing their instruments, and at this moment, Elicio playing his rebeck and Erastro his pipe, the former began these verses:

ELICIO.

I yield unto the thought within my breast

And in my grief find rest;

Glory no more in view,

I follow her whom fancy doth pursue,

For her I ever in my fancy see,

From all the bonds of Love exempt and free.

Unto the soul's eye Heaven grants not the grace

To see the peaceful face

Of her who is my foe,

Glory and pride of all that Heaven can show;

When I behold her with my body's eye,

The sun have I beheld, and blind am I.

Oh bitter bonds of Love, though fraught with pleasure!

Oh, mighty beyond measure,

Love's hand! that thus couldst steal

The bliss which thou didst promise to reveal

Unto mine eyes, when, in my freedom's hour,

I mocked at thee, thy bow and quiver's power.

What loveliness! what hands as white as snow,

Thou tyrant, didst thou show!

How wearied wert thou grown,

When first the noose upon my neck was thrown!

And even thou hadst fallen in the fray

Were Galatea not alive to-day.

She, she alone, on earth alone was found

To deal the cruel wound

Within the heart of me.

And make a vassal of the fancy free,

That would as steel or marble be displayed,

Did it not yield itself to love the maid.

What charter can protect, what monarch's grace

Against the cruel face,

More beauteous than the sun,

Of her who hath my happiness undone?

Ah face, that dost reveal

On earth the bliss that Heaven doth conceal!

How comes it then that nature could unite

Such rigour and despite

With so much loveliness,

Such worth and yet a mood so pitiless?

Such opposites to join

My happiness consents—the hurt is mine.

Easy it is that my brief lot should see

Sweet life in unity

With bitter death, and find

Its evil nestling where its good reclined.

Amidst these different ways

I see that hope, but not desire decays.

The loving shepherd sang no more, nor did Thyrsis and Damon wish to stay longer, but showing themselves unexpectedly and with spirit, came to where Elicio was. When he saw them he recognised his friend Damon, and going forward with incredible joy to welcome him, said to him:

'What fortune, discreet Damon, has ordained that by your presence you should bestow so fair a fortune on these banks which have long wished for you?'

'It cannot be but fair,' answered Damon, 'since it has brought me to see you, oh Elicio, a thing on which I set a value as great as is the desire I had for it, and as long absence and the friendship I cherish for you forced me to do. But if you can for any reason say what you have said, it is because you have before you the famous Thyrsis, glory and honour of the Castilian soil.'

When Elicio heard him say that this was Thyrsis, to him only known by fame, he welcomed him with great courtesy, and said to him:

'Your pleasing countenance, renowned Thyrsis, agrees well with what loud fame in lands near and far proclaims of your worth and discretion: and so, seeing that your writings have filled me with wonder and led me to desire to know you and serve you, you can henceforward count and treat me as a true friend.'

'What I gain thereby,' replied Thyrsis, 'is so well known that in vain would fame proclaim what the affection you bear me makes you say that it proclaims of me, if I did not recognise the favour you do me in seeking to place me in the number of your friends; and since between those who are friends words of compliment must be superfluous, let ours cease at this point, and let deeds give witness of our good-will.'

'Mine will ever be to serve you,' replied Elicio, 'as you will see, oh Thyrsis, if time or fortune place me in a position in any way suitable for it; for that I now occupy, though I would not change it for another offering greater advantages, is such that it scarcely leaves me free to proffer what I desire.'

'Since you set your desire on so lofty a goal as you do,' said Damon, 'I would hold it madness to endeavour to lower it to an object that might be less; and so, friend Elicio, do not speak ill of the condition in which you find yourself, for I assure you that if it were compared with mine, I would find occasion to feel towards you more envy than pity.'

'It is quite clear, Damon,' said Elicio, 'that you have been away from these banks for many a day, since you do not know what love makes me feel here, and if it is not so, you cannot know or have experience of Galatea's disposition, for if you had noted it, you would change into pity the envy you might feel for me.'

'What new thing can he expect from Galatea's disposition,' replied Damon, 'who has experienced that of Amaryllis?'

'If your stay on these banks,' answered Elicio, 'be as long as I wish, you, Damon, will learn and see on them, and on others will hear, how her cruelty and gentleness go in equal balance, extremes which end the life of him whose misfortune has brought him to the pass of adoring her.'

'On our Henares's banks,' said Thyrsis at this point, 'Galatea had more fame for beauty than for cruelty; but above all, it is said that she is discreet; and if this be true, as it ought to be, from her discretion springs self-knowledge, and from self-knowledge self-esteem, and from self-esteem desire not to stray, and from desire not to stray comes desire not to gratify herself. And you, Elicio, seeing how ill she responds to your wishes, give the name of cruelty to that which you should have called honourable reticence; and I do not wonder, for it is, after all, the condition proper to lovers who find small favour.'

'You would be right in what you have said, oh Thyrsis,' replied Elicio, 'if my desires were to wander from the path befitting her honour and modesty; but if they are so measured, as is due to her worth and reputation, what avails such disdain, such bitter and peevish replies, such open withdrawal of the face from him who has set all his glory on merely seeing it? Ah, Thyrsis, Thyrsis, how love must have placed you on the summit of its joys, since with so calm a spirit you speak of its effects! I do not know that what you say now goes well with what you once said when you sang:

"Alas, from what a wealth of hope I come
Unto a poor and faltering desire"—

with the rest you added to it.'

Up to this point Erastro had been silent, watching what was passing between the shepherds, wondering to see their gentle grace and bearing, with the proofs each one gave of the great discretion he had. But seeing that from step to step they had been brought to reasoning on affairs of love, as one who was so experienced in them, he broke silence, and said:

'I quite believe, discreet shepherds, that long experience will have shown you that one cannot reduce to a fixed term the disposition of loving hearts, which, being governed by another's will, are exposed to a thousand contrary accidents. And so, renowned Thyrsis, you have no reason to wonder at what Elicio has said, and he as little to wonder at what you say, or take for an example what he says you sang, still less what I know you sang when you said:

"The pallor and the weakness I display,"

wherein you clearly showed the woeful plight in which you then were; for a little later there came to our huts the news of your bliss celebrated in those verses of yours, which are so famous. They began, if I remember rightly:

"The dawn comes up, and from her fertile hand."

Whence we clearly see the difference there is between one moment and another, and how love like them is wont to change condition, making him laugh to-day who wept yesterday, and him weep to-morrow who laughs to-day. And since I have known her disposition so well, Galatea's harshness and haughty disdain cannot succeed in destroying my hopes, though I hope from her nothing save that she should be content that I should love her.'

'He who should not hope a fair issue to so loving and measured a desire as you have shown, oh shepherd,' replied Damon, 'deserved renown beyond that of a despairing lover; truly it is a great thing you seek of Galatea! But tell me, shepherd—so may she grant it you—can it be that you have your desire so well in bounds that it does not advance in desire beyond what you have said.'

'You may well believe him, friend Damon,' said Elicio, 'since Galatea's worth gives no opportunity for aught else to be desired or hoped of her, and even this is so difficult to obtain that at times in Erastro hope is chilled, and in me grows cold, so that he counts as certain, and I as sure, that sooner must death come than hope's fulfilment. But as it is not right to welcome such honoured guests with the bitter tales of our miseries, let them now cease, and let us betake ourselves to the village, where you may rest from the heavy toil of the road, and may with greater ease, if so you wish, learn our uneasiness.'

All were pleased to fall in with Elicio's wish, and he and Erastro, collecting their flocks once more, though it was some hours before the wonted time, in company with the two shepherds, speaking on different matters, though all concerned with love, journeyed towards the village. But, as all Erastro's pastime was in playing and singing, so for this reason, as also from the desire he had to learn if the two new shepherds were as skilful as was said of them, in order to induce them and invite them to do the same, he asked Elicio to play his rebeck, to the sound of which he began to sing as follows:

ERASTRO.

The shepherds did not think ill of the sonnet, nor were they displeased with Erastro's voice, which, though not one of the most exquisite, was yet a tuneful one; and straightway Elicio, moved by Erastro's example, bade him play his pipe, to the sound of which he repeated this sonnet:

ELICIO.

As Elicio finished, straightway Damon, to the sound of the same pipe of Erastro, began to sing in this wise:

DAMON.

Damon ceased, and Thyrsis, to the sound of the instruments of the three shepherds, began to sing this sonnet:

As Thyrsis finished, all the instruments of the shepherds made such pleasing music that it gave great joy to any who heard it, being further aided from among the dense branches by a thousand kinds of painted birds, which seemed as in chorus to give them back reply with divine harmony. In this way they had gone on a stretch, when they came to an ancient hermitage standing on the slope of a hillock, not so far from the road but that they could hear the sound of a harp which some one, it seemed, was playing within. Erastro, hearing this, said:

'Stop, shepherds, for, as I think, we shall hear to-day what I have wished to hear for days, namely, the voice of a graceful youth, who, some twelve or fourteen days ago, came to spend within yon hermitage a life harder than it seems to me his few years can bear. Sometimes when I have passed this way, I have heard a harp being played and a voice sounding, so sweet that it has filled me with the keenest desire to listen to it; but I have always come at the moment he stayed his song; and though by speaking to him I have managed to become his friend, offering to his service all within my means and power, I have never been able to prevail with him to disclose to me who he is, and the causes which have moved him to come so young and settle in such solitude and retirement.'

What Erastro said about the young hermit, newly come there, filled the shepherds with the same desire of knowing him as he had; and so they agreed to approach the hermitage in such a way that without being perceived they might be able to hear what he sang, before they came to speak to him, and on doing this, they succeeded so well that they placed themselves in a spot where, without being seen or perceived, they heard him who was within uttering to the sound of his harp, verses such as these:

With a deep sigh, the secluded youth, who was within the hermitage, ended his mournful song, and the shepherds, perceiving that he was not going on, without more delay, went in all together, and saw there, at one end, sitting on a hard stone, a comely and graceful youth, apparently two and twenty years of age, clad in a rough kersey, his feet unshod and his body girt with a coarse rope, which served him as belt. His head was drooping on one side, one hand clutched the portion of the tunic over his heart, the other arm fell limply on the other side. As they saw him in this plight, and as he had made no movement on the entry of the shepherds, they clearly recognised that he had fainted, as was the truth, for his deep brooding over his sorrows often brought him to such a pass. Erastro went up to him, and seizing him roughly by the arm, made him come to himself, though so dazed that he seemed to be waking from a heavy sleep; which tokens of grief caused no small grief in those who witnessed it, and straightway Erastro said to him:

'What is it, sir, that your troubled breast feels? Do not fail to tell it, for you have before you those who will not refuse any trouble to give relief to yours.'

'These are not the first offers you have made me,' replied the young man with voice somewhat faint, 'nor yet would they be the last I would try to make use of, if I could; but fortune has brought me to such a pass, that neither can they avail me, nor can I do justice to them more than in will. This you can take in return for the good you offer me; and if you wish to learn aught else concerning me, time, which conceals nothing, will tell you more than I could wish.'

'If you leave it to time to satisfy me in what you tell me,' replied Erastro, 'to such payment small gratitude is due, since time, in our despite, brings into the market-place the deepest secret of our hearts.'

Thereupon the rest of the shepherds all asked him to tell them the cause of his sorrow, especially Thyrsis, who, with powerful arguments, persuaded him and gave him to understand, that there is no evil in this life but brings with it its cure, unless death, that interrupts man's course, opposes it. Thereto he added other words, which moved the obstinate boy with his to satisfy them all on what they wished to learn from him: and so he said to them:

'Though for me it were better, my pleasant friends, to live the little that remains to me of life without friendship, and to retire to a greater solitude than that in which I am, yet, not to show myself irresponsive to the good-will you have shown me, I decide to tell you all that I think will be sufficient, and the passes through which fickle fortune has brought me to the strait in which I am. But as it seems to me that it is now somewhat late, and that, as my misfortunes are many, it might be possible for night to come on before I have told you them, it will be well for us all to go to the village together, since it causes me no further inconvenience to make the journey to-night I had determined on to-morrow, which is compulsory for me, since from your village I am provided with what I need for my sustenance; and on the way, as best we can, I will inform you of my adversities.'

All approved of what the young hermit said, and setting him in their midst, they turned with loitering steps to follow the road to the village; and straightway the sorrowing hermit, with tokens of great grief, began in this wise the tale of his woes:

'In the ancient and famous city of Xeres, whose inhabitants are favoured of Minerva and Mars, was born Timbrio, a valiant knight, and if I had to relate his virtues and nobility of soul, I would set myself a difficult task. It is enough to know that, whether by his great goodness, or by the power of the stars which drew me to it, I sought in every possible way to be his particular friend; and in this Heaven was so kind to me, that those who knew us, almost forgetting the name of Timbrio and that of Silerio (which is mine) merely called us the two friends, and we, by our constant converse and friendly deeds caused this to be no idle opinion. In this wise we two passed our youthful years in incredible joy and happiness, engaging ourselves now in the field in the pastime of the chase, now in the city in that of honourable Mars, until, one day (of the many unlucky days that hostile time has made me see in the course of my life), there happened to my friend Timbrio a weighty quarrel with a powerful knight, an inhabitant of the same city. The dispute came to such a pass that the knight remained wounded in his honour and Timbrio was obliged to absent himself, to give an opportunity for the furious discord to cease, which was beginning to kindle between the two families. He left a letter written to his enemy, informing him that he would find him in Italy, in the city of Milan or in Naples, whenever, as a knight, he should wish to have satisfaction for the insult done him. With this the factions between the kinsmen of both ceased: and it was ordained that the offended knight, who was called Pransiles, should challenge Timbrio to equal and mortal combat, and that, on finding a safe field for the combat, he should inform Timbrio. My luckless fate further ordained that, at the time this happened, I should find myself so failing in health, that I scarce could rise from my bed. And from this chance, I lost that of following my friend wherever he might be going, who, on parting, took his leave of me with no small discontent, charging me, on recovering strength, to seek him, for that I would find him in the city of Naples; and he left me with greater pain than I can now express to you. But at the end of a few days (the desire I had to see him prevailing on me more than the weakness that wearied me), I set myself straightway on the journey; and, in order that I might accomplish it with more speed and safety, fortune offered me the convenience of four galleys, which were lying ready equipped off the famous isle of CÁdiz for departure to Italy. I embarked on one of them, and with a prosperous wind we soon discovered the CatalÁn shores; and when we had cast anchor in a harbour there, I, being somewhat weary of the sea, first making sure that the galleys were not leaving there that night, disembarked with only a friend and a servant of mine. I do not think it could have been midnight, when the sailors and those that had the galleys in charge, seeing that the serenity of the sky betokened a calm, or a prosperous wind, so as not to lose the good opportunity offered to them, at the second watch made the signal for departure; and weighing anchor, with much speed they set their oars to the smooth sea, and their sails to the gentle wind, and it was done as I say with such haste, that for all the haste I made to return to embark, I was not in time. And so I had to remain on the shore with the annoyance he can imagine, who has passed through ordinary occurrences of the kind, for I was badly supplied with everything that was necessary to continue my journey by land. But, reflecting that little remedy was to be hoped from remaining there, I determined to return to Barcelona, where, as being a larger city, it might be possible to find someone to supply me with what I needed, writing to Xeres or Seville as regards the payment. The morning broke on me, whilst engaged in these thoughts, and, determined to put them into practice, I waited till the day should be more advanced; and when on the point of departing, I perceived a great sound on land, and all the people running to the principal street of the place. And when I asked some one what it was, he replied to me: "Go, sir, to that corner, where you will learn what you want from the voice of the crier." I did so, and the first object on which I set eyes was a lofty crucifix, and a great mob of people, signs that some one condemned to death was coming among them; and all this was proved to me by the voice of the crier, declaring that justice ordered a man to be hanged for having been a robber and a highwayman. When the man came to me, I straightway recognised that he was my good friend Timbrio, coming on foot with fetters on his hands, and a rope round his throat, his eyes riveted on the crucifix he carried before him. He was speaking and protesting to the priests who were going with him, that, by the account he thought, within a few short hours, to render to the true God, whose image he had before his eyes, he had never, in all the course of his life, committed aught for which he deserved to suffer publicly so shameful a death; and he asked all to ask the judges to give him some term, to prove how innocent he was of that which they accused him of. Let it here be imagined, if imagination could raise itself so high, how I would remain at the terrible sight offered to my eyes. I know not what to say to you, gentlemen, save that I remained so amazed and beside myself, and so bereft of all my senses, that I must have seemed a marble statue to anyone who saw me at that moment. But now that the confused murmur of the people, the raised voices of the criers, the piteous words of Timbrio, and the consolatory words of the priests, and the undoubted recognition of my good friend, had brought me from my first amazement, and the seething blood came to give aid to my fainting heart, awakening in it the wrath befitting the crying vengeance for Timbrio's wrong, without regarding the danger I incurred, but only that of Timbrio, to see if I could set him free or follow him to the life beyond, fearing but little to lose mine, I laid hand on my sword; and, with more than ordinary fury, forced my way through the confused crowd, till I came to where Timbrio was. He, not knowing if so many swords had been unsheathed on his behalf, was watching what was going on with perplexed and anguished mind, until I said to him: "Where, Timbrio, is the strength of your valorous breast? What do you hope, or what do you wait for? Why not avail yourself of the present opportunity? seek, true friend, to save your life whilst mine forms a shield against the injustice, which I think is being done you here." These words of mine and Timbrio's recognition of me caused him to forget all fear and to break the bonds or fetters from his hands; but all his ardour would have availed little, had not the priests, moved with compassion, aided his wish. These seized him bodily, and despite those who sought to hinder it, entered with him into a church hard by, leaving me in the midst of all the officers of justice, who with great persistence endeavoured to seize me, as at last they did, since my strength alone was not capable of resisting so many strengths combined; and with more violence than in my opinion my offence deserved, they took me to the public gaol, wounded with two wounds. My boldness and the fact that Timbrio had escaped increased my fault, and the judges' anger; they, weighing carefully the crime committed by me, deeming it just that I should die, straightway pronounced the cruel sentence and awaited another day to execute it. This sad news came to Timbrio there in the church where he was, and as I afterwards learned, my sentence caused him more emotion than his own death-sentence had done; and to free me from it, he again offered to surrender himself once more to the power of the law; but the priests advised him that that was of little avail, nay rather, was adding evil to evil and misfortune to misfortune, since his surrender would not bring about my release, for that it could not take place without my being punished for the fault committed. Not a few arguments were needed to persuade Timbrio not to give himself up to justice; but he calmed himself by deciding in his mind to do for me next day what I had done for him, in order to pay me in the same coin or die in the attempt. I was informed of all his intentions by a priest who came to confess me, through whom I sent him word that the best remedy my calamity could have was that he should escape and seek with all speed to inform the viceroy of Barcelona of all that had happened, before the judges of that place should execute judgment on him. I also learned the reason why my friend Timbrio was consigned to bitter punishment, as the same priest I have mentioned to you told me; it was that, as Timbrio came journeying through the kingdom of Catalonia, on leaving Perpignan, he fell in with a number of brigands, who had as lord and chief a valiant CatalÁn gentleman, who by reason of certain enmities was in the band—as it is the time-honoured custom of that kingdom for those who have suffered from an enemy, whenever they are persons of mark, to join one, and to inflict all the evil they can, not only on lives, but on property, a practice opposed to all Christianity, and worthy of all commiseration. It happened then that while the brigands were busied in robbing Timbrio of what he had with him, that moment their lord and captain came up, and as after all he was a gentleman, he did not wish that any wrong should be done to Timbrio before his eyes; but rather, deeming him a man of worth and talents, he made him a thousand courteous offers, asking him to remain with him that night in a place near by, for that on the morrow he would give him a safe-conduct so that without any fear he might pursue his journey until he left that province. Timbrio could not but do what the courteous gentleman asked of him, constrained by the good offices received from him; they went off together and came to a little spot where they were joyously received by the people of the place. But fortune, which up till then had jested with Timbrio, ordained that that same night a company of soldiers, gathered together for this very purpose, should fall in with the brigands: and having surprised them, they easily routed them. And though they could not seize the captain, they seized and killed many others, and one of the prisoners was Timbrio, whom they took for a notorious robber in that band, and as you may imagine, he must undoubtedly have much resembled him, since, though the other prisoners testified that he was not the man they thought, telling the truth about all that had happened, yet malice had such power in the breasts of the judges that without further inquiry they sentenced him to death. And this would have been carried out, had not Heaven, that favours just purposes, ordained that the galleys should depart, and I remain on land to do what I have so far been telling you I did. Timbrio was in the church, and I in gaol, arranging that he should set out that night for Barcelona, and while I was waiting to see where the rage of the offended judges would end, Timbrio and I were freed from our misfortune amidst another yet greater that befell them. But would that Heaven had been kind and wreaked on me alone the fury of its wrath, if but it had been averted from that poor unfortunate people who placed their wretched necks beneath the edges of a thousand barbarous swords. It would be a little more than midnight, an hour suited for wicked onslaughts, at which the wearied world is wont to yield its wearied limbs to the arms of sweet sleep, when suddenly there arose among all the people a confused hubbub of voices crying: "To arms, to arms, the Turks are in the land." The echoes of these sad cries—who doubts but that they caused terror in the breasts of the women and even set consternation in the brave hearts of the men? I know not what to say to you, sirs, save that in an instant the wretched land began to burn so greedily that the very stones with which the houses were built seemed but to offer fitting fuel to the kindled fire that was consuming all. By the light of the raging flames the barbarous scimetars were seen flashing and the white turbans appearing of the Turks, who, all aflame, were breaking down the doors of the houses with axes or hatchets of hard steel, and entering therein, were coming out laden with Christian spoils. One carried the wearied mother, another the tender little son, who with faint and weak groans pleaded, the mother for her son, and the son for his mother; and one I know there was who with profane hand stayed the fulfilment of the rightful desire of the chaste maiden newly-wed and of the hapless husband, before whose weeping eyes mayhap he saw culled the fruit the ill-starred one was thinking in a short time to enjoy. So great was the confusion, so many the cries and minglings of these different voices that they caused much terror. The savage and devilish rabble, seeing what little resistance was made them, dared to enter the hallowed temples, and lay infidel hands on the holy relics, placing in their bosoms the gold with which they were adorned, and dashing them to the ground with loathsome contempt. Little availed the priest his holiness, the friar his refuge, the old man his snowy hair, the boy his gallant youth, or the little child his simple innocence, for from all those unbelieving dogs carried off booty. They, after burning the houses, robbing the temple, deflowering the maidens, and slaying the defenders, at the time the dawn was coming, more wearied than sated with what they had done, returned without any hindrance to their vessels, having already loaded them with all the best the village contained, leaving it desolate and without inhabitant, for they were taking with them nearly all the people and the rest had taken refuge in the mountain. Who at so sad a sight could have kept his hands still and his eyes dry? But, ah! our life is so full of woes that, for all the mournful disaster I have related to you, there were Christian hearts that rejoiced, even those of the men in the gaol who, amidst the general unhappiness, recovered their own happiness, for, pretending to go and defend the village, they broke the gates of the prison, and set themselves free, each one seeking not to attack the enemy, but to save himself, and amongst them I enjoyed the freedom so dearly gained. And seeing there was no one to face the enemy, through fear of falling into their clutches, or returning to the clutches of the prison, forsaking the wasted village, with no small pain at what I had seen, and with that caused by my wounds, I followed a man who told me he would bring me safely to a monastery which was in those mountains, where I would be cured of my hurts and even defended, if they sought to seize me again. In a word I followed him, as I have told you, in the desire to learn what my friend Timbrio's fortune had wrought; he, as I afterwards learned, had escaped with some wounds, and followed over the mountain another road different from that I took; he stopped at the port of Rosas, where he remained some days, seeking to learn what fate had been mine, and at last, not learning any news, he went away in a ship and came with a favouring wind to the great city of Naples. I returned to Barcelona, and there furnished myself with what I needed; and then, being healed of my wounds, I resumed my journey, and, no misadventure happening to me, came to Naples, where I found Timbrio ill; and such was the joy we both felt at seeing each other, that I have not the power to describe it properly to you now. There we told each other of our lives, and of all that had happened to us up to that moment; but this my pleasure was all watered by seeing Timbrio not so well as I could wish, nay rather so ill, and with so strange a disease, that if I had not come at that moment, I might have come in time to perform the rites of his death, and not to celebrate the joys of seeing him. After he had learnt from me all he wanted, with tears in his eyes he said to me: "Ah, friend Silerio! I truly think that Heaven seeks to add to the load of my misfortunes, so that, by giving me health through your safety, I may remain every day under greater obligation to serve you." These words of Timbrio's moved me; but, as they seemed to me courtesies so little used between us, they filled me with wonder. And not to weary you in telling you word for word what I replied to him, and what he answered further, I shall only tell you that Timbrio, unhappy man, was in love with a notable lady of that city, whose parents were Spaniards, though she had been born in Naples. Her name was Nisida, and her beauty so great, that I make bold to say that nature summed up in her its highest perfections; and in her modesty and beauty were so united, that what the one enflamed the other chilled, and the desires her grace raised to the loftiest heaven, her modest propriety brought down to the lowest depths of earth. From this cause Timbrio was as poor in hope as rich in thoughts; and above all failing in health, and in the plight of ending his days without disclosing his state—such was the fear and reverence he had conceived for the fair Nisida. But after I had fully learnt his disease, and had seen Nisida, and considered the quality and nobility of her parents, I determined to waive for him property, life and honour, and more, if more I had in my power to bestow. And so I employed an artifice, the strangest heard or read of up till now; which was, that I decided to dress up as a buffoon, and with a guitar to enter Nisida's house, which, as her parents were, as I have said, among the principal people of the city, was frequented by many other buffoons. This decision seemed good to Timbrio, and straightway he left to the hands of my skill all his happiness. Forthwith I had several elegant costumes made, of various kinds, and, putting them on, I began to rehearse my new character before Timbrio, who laughed not a little at seeing me thus clothed in buffoon's garb; and to see if my skill equalled the dress, he told me to say something to him, pretending that he was a great prince, and I newly come to visit him. And if memory does not fail me, and you, sirs, are not tired of listening to me, I will tell you what I sang to him then, as it was the first time.'

All said that nothing would give them greater pleasure, than to learn in detail all the issue of his affair, and so they bade him not to fail to tell them anything, however trivial it might be.

'Since you give me this permission,' said the hermit, 'I have no desire to fail to tell you how I began to give examples of my foolery, for it was with these verses that I sang to Timbrio, imagining him to be a great lord to whom I was saying them:

SILERIO.

'These and other things of more jest and laughter I then sang to Timbrio, seeking to adapt the spirit and bearing of my body, so that I might in every way show myself a practised buffoon: and so well did I get on in the part, that in a few days I was known by all the chief people in the city, and the fame of the Spanish buffoon flew through it all, until at last they desired to see me in the house of Nisida's father, which desire I would have fulfilled for them with much readiness, if I had not purposely waited to be asked. But at length I could not excuse myself from going there one day when they had a banquet, where I saw more closely the just cause Timbrio had for suffering, and that which Heaven gave me to rob me of happiness all the days I shall remain in this life. I saw Nisida, Nisida I saw, that I might see no more, nor is there more to see after having seen her. Oh mighty power of love, against which our mighty powers avail but little! can it be that in an instant, in a moment, thou shouldst bring the props and armaments of my loyalty to such a pass, as to level them all with the ground! Ah, if only the thought of who I was had stayed with me a little for aid, the friendship I owed to Timbrio, Nisida's great worth, and the ignominious costume in which I found myself, which all hindered the hope of winning her (the staff wherewith love, in the beginnings of love, advances or retires) from springing up together with the new and loving desire that had sprung up in me. In a word I saw the beauty I have told you, and since to see her was of such moment to me, I sought ever to win the friendship of her parents, and of all her household; and this by playing the wit and the man of breeding, playing my part with the greatest discretion and grace in my power. And when a gentleman who was at table that day asked me to sing something in praise of Nisida's beauty, fortune willed that I should call to mind some verses, which I had made, many days before, for another all but similar occasion; and adopting them for the present one, I repeated them to this effect:

SILERIO.

'With these and other things that I then sang, all were so charmed with me, and especially Nisida's parents, that they offered me all I might need, and asked me to let no day go by without visiting them; and so, without my purpose being discovered or imagined, I came to achieve my first design, which was to expedite my entrance into the house of Nisida, who enjoyed extremely my bright ways. But now that the lapse of many days, and my frequent converse and the great friendship all that household showed me, had removed some shadows from the excessive fear I felt at disclosing my intent to Nisida, I determined to see how far went the fortune of Timbrio, whose only hope for it lay in my solicitude. But woe is me! I was then more ready to ask a salve for my wound than health for another's; for Nisida's grace, beauty, discretion, and modesty had so wrought in my soul that it was placed in no less an extreme of grief and love than that of hapless Timbrio. To your discreet imagination I leave it to picture what a heart could feel in which there fought, on the one hand, the laws of friendship, and, on the other, the inviolable laws of Cupid; for, if those obliged it not to go beyond what they and reason asked of it, these constrained it to set store by what was due to its happiness. These attacks and struggles afflicted me in such wise that, without procuring another's health I began to have fears for my own, and to grow so weak and pale that I caused general compassion in all that saw me, and those who showed it most were Nisida's parents; and even she herself, with pure and Christian sympathy, often asked me to tell her the cause of my disease, offering me all that was necessary for its cure. "Ah!" would I say to myself whenever Nisida made me such offers, "with what ease, fair Nisida, could your hand cure the evil your beauty has wrought! but I boast myself so good a friend that, though I counted my cure as certain as I count it impossible and uncertain, it would be impossible for me to accept it." And since these thoughts at such moments disturbed my fancy, I did not succeed in making any reply to Nisida; whereat she and a sister of hers, who was called Blanca (less in years, though not less in discretion and beauty than Nisida), were amazed, and with increasing desire to know the origin of my sadness, with many importunities asked me to conceal from them nought of my grief. Seeing, then, that fortune offered me the opportunity of putting into practice what my cunning had brought so far, once, when by chance the fair Nisida and her sister found themselves alone, and returned anew to ask what they had asked so often, I said to them: "Think not, ladies, that the silence I have up till now kept in not telling you the cause of the pain you imagine I feel has been caused by my small desire to obey you, since it is very clear that if my lowly state has any happiness in this life, it is to have thereby succeeded in coming to know you, and to serve you as retainer. The only cause has been the thought that, though I reveal it, it will not serve for more than to give you grief, seeing how far away is its cure. But now that it is forced upon me to satisfy you in this, you must know, ladies, that in this city is a gentleman, a native of my own country, whom I hold as master, refuge, and friend, the most generous, discreet, and courtly man that may be found far and wide. He is here, away from his dear native land, by reason of certain quarrels which befell him there and forced him to come to this city, believing that, if there in his own land he left enemies, here in a foreign land friends would not fail him. But his belief has turned out so mistaken that one enemy alone, whom, without knowing how, he has made here for himself, has placed him in such a pass that if Heaven do not help him he will end his friendships and enmities by ending his life. And as I know the worth of Timbrio (for this is the name of the gentleman whose misfortune I am relating to you), and know what the world will lose in losing him and what I shall lose if I lose him, I give the tokens of feeling you have seen, and even they are small compared to what the danger in which Timbrio is placed ought to move me to. I know well that you will desire to know, ladies, who is the enemy who has placed so valorous a gentleman as he whom I have depicted to you in such a pass; but I also know that, in naming him to you, you will not wonder save that he has not yet destroyed him and slain him. His enemy is love, the universal destroyer of our peace and prosperity; this fierce enemy took possession of his heart. On entering this city Timbrio beheld a fair lady of singular worth and beauty, but so high placed and so modest that the hapless one has never dared to reveal to her his thought." To this point had I come when Nisida said to me: "Truly, Astor," for this was my name for the nonce, "I know not if I can believe that that gentleman is as valorous and discreet as you say, since he has allowed himself so easily to surrender to an evil desire so newly born, yielding himself so needlessly to the arms of despair; and though I understand but little these effects of love, yet it seems to me that it is folly and weakness for him who is cast down by them to fail to reveal his thoughts to her who inspires it in him, though she be of all the worth conceivable. For what shame can result to her from knowing that she is well loved, or to him what greater evil from her harsh and petulant reply than the death he himself brings on himself by being silent? It would not be right that because a judge has a reputation for sternness, anyone should fail to allege proof of his claim. But let us suppose that the death take place of a lover as silent and timid as that friend of yours; tell me, would you call the lady with whom he was in love cruel? No indeed, for one can scarcely relieve the need which does not come to one's knowledge, nor does it fall within one's duty to seek to learn it so as to relieve it. So, forgive me, Astor, but the deeds of that friend of yours do not make very true the praises you give him." When I heard such words from Nisida, straightway I could have wished by mine to reveal to her all the secret of my breast, but, as I understood the goodness and simplicity with which she expressed them, I had to check myself, waiting for a better and more private opportunity, and thus I replied to her: "When the affairs of love, fair Nisida, are regarded with free eyes, follies so great are seen in them that they are no less worthy of laughter than of pity: but if the soul finds itself entangled in love's subtle net, then the feelings are so fettered and so beside their wonted selves, that memory merely serves as treasurer and guardian of the object the eyes have regarded, the understanding is of use only in searching into and learning the worth of her whom it loves well, and the will in consenting that the memory and understanding should not busy themselves with aught else: and so the eyes see like a silvered mirror, for they make everything larger. Now hope increases when they are favoured, now fear when they are cast down; and thus what has happened to Timbrio, happens to many, that deeming at first very high the object to which their eyes were raised, they lose the hope of attaining it, but not in such wise that love does not say to them there within the soul: Who knows? it might be; and thereat hope goes, as the saying is, between two waters, while if it should forsake them altogether, love would flee with it. And hence it arises that the heart of the afflicted lover walks between fearing and daring, and without venturing to tell it, he braces himself up, and presses together his wound, hoping, though he knows not from whom, for the remedy from which he sees himself so far away. In this very plight I have found Timbrio, though, in spite of all, he has, at my persuasion, written to the lady for whom he is dying, a letter which he gave to me that I might give it to her and see if there appeared in it anything in any way unseemly, so that I might correct it. He charged me also to seek the means of placing it in his lady's hands, which, I think, will be impossible, not because I will not hazard it, since the least I will hazard to serve him will be life, but because it seems to me that I shall not find an opportunity to give it." "Let us see it," said Nisida, "for I wish to see how discreet lovers write." Straightway I drew from my bosom a letter which had been written some days before, in the hope of an opportunity for Nisida to see it, and fortune offering to me this one, I showed it to her. As I had read it many times, it remained in my memory, and its words were these:

TIMBRIO TO NISIDA.

"I had determined, fair lady, that my ill-starred end might declare to you who I was, since it seemed to me better that you should praise my silence in death than blame my boldness in life; but as I think it befits my soul to leave this world in favour with you, so that in the next love may not deny it the reward for what it has suffered, I make you cognisant of the state in which your rare beauty has placed me. It is such that, though I could indicate it, I would not obtain its cure, since for small things no one should make bold to offend your exalted worth, whereby, and by your honourable generosity I hope to renew life to serve you, or to win death to offend you never more."

'Nisida was listening with much attention to this letter, and, when she had heard it all, said: "The lady to whom this letter is sent has naught to complain of, unless, from pure pride, she has become prudish, a failing from which the greater part of the ladies in this city are not free. But nevertheless, Astor, do not fail to give it to her, since, as I have already told you, more evil cannot be expected from her reply, than that the evil you say your friend suffers now should become worse. And to encourage you the more, I wish to assure you that there is no woman so coy and so on the alert to watch over her honour that it grieves her much to see and learn that she is loved, for then she knows that the opinion she holds of herself is not vain, while it would be the contrary if she saw she was wooed by none." "I know well, lady, that what you say is true," I replied, "but I am afraid that, if I make bold to give it, it must at least cost me the refusal of admittance henceforward into that house, whereat there would come to me no less hurt than to Timbrio." "Seek not, Astor," replied Nisida, "to confirm the sentence which the judge has not yet given. Be of good courage, for this on which you venture is no fierce conflict." "Would to Heaven, fair Nisida," I answered, "that I saw myself in that pass, for more readily would I offer my breast to the danger and fierceness of a thousand opposing arms than my hand to give this loving letter to her who, I fear, being offended by it, must hurl upon my shoulders the punishment another's fault deserves. But, in spite of these objections, I intend to follow, lady, the counsel you have given me, though I shall wait for a time when fear shall not occupy my feelings as much as now. Meanwhile I entreat you to pretend that you are the one to whom this letter is sent, and give me some reply to take to Timbrio, in order that by this deceit he may be comforted a little, and time and opportunities may reveal to me what I am to do." "A poor artifice you would employ," answered Nisida, "for, granted that I were now to give, in another's name, some soft or disdainful reply, do you not see that time, that discloses our ends, will clear up the deceit, and Timbrio will be more angry with you than satisfied? Especially as since I have not hitherto replied to such letters, I would not wish to begin by giving replies in a feigned and lying manner; but, though I know I am going contrary to what I owe to myself, if you promise to tell me who the lady is, I will tell you what to say to your friend, and such words that he will be pleased for the nonce, and even though afterwards things turn out contrary to what he thinks, the lie will not be found out thereby." "Do not ask this of me, Nisida," I answered, "for to tell you her name places me in confusion as great as I would be placed in if I gave her the letter. Suffice it to know that she is of high degree, and that, without doing you any detriment, she is not inferior to you in beauty, and saying this, it seems to me, I praise her more than all women born." "I am not surprised that you say this of me," said Nisida, "since, with men of your condition and calling, to flatter is their business; but, leaving all this on one side, as I do not wish you to lose the comfort of so good a friend, I advise you to tell him that you went to give the letter to his lady, and that you have held with her all the discourses you have held with me, without omitting anything, and how she read your letter, and the encouragement she gave you to take it to his lady, thinking she was not the one to whom it came, and that, though you did not make bold to declare everything, you have come to this conclusion from her words that, when she learns she is the one for whom the letter came, the deceit and the undeceiving will not cause her much pain. In this way he will receive some solace in his trouble, and afterwards, on revealing your intention to his lady, you can reply to Timbrio what she replies to you, since, up to the moment she knows it, this lie remains in force, and the truth of what may follow, without to-day's deceit interfering." I was left marvelling at Nisida's discreet project, and indeed not without mistrust of the honesty of my own artifice; and so, kissing her hands for the good counsel, and agreeing with her that I was to give her a particular account of whatever happened in this affair, I went and told Timbrio all that had happened to me with Nisida. Thence came it that hope came into his soul and turned anew to sustain him, banishing from his heart the clouds of chilly fear that up till then had kept him in gloom; and all this pleasure was increased by my promising him at every step that my steps should only be devoted to his service, and that when next I found myself with Nisida, he should win the game of skill with as fair a success as his thoughts deserved. One thing I have forgotten to tell you, that all the time I was talking with Nisida and her sister, the younger sister never spoke a word, but with a strange silence ever hung on mine; and I can tell you, sirs, that, if she was silent, it was not because she could not speak with all discretion and grace, for in these two sisters nature showed all she has in her power to bestow. Nevertheless, I know not if I should tell you that I would that Heaven had denied me the happiness of having known them, especially Nisida, the beginning and end of all my misfortune; but what can I do, if that which the fates have ordained cannot be stayed by human means? I loved, love, and shall love Nisida well, yet without hurt to Timbrio, as my wearied tongue has well shown, for I never spoke to her, but it was on Timbrio's behalf, ever concealing, with more than ordinary discretion, my own pain, so as to cure another's. It happened then, that as Nisida's beauty was so engraven on my soul from the first moment my eyes beheld her, being unable to keep so rich a treasure concealed in my breast, whenever I found myself at times alone or apart, I used to reveal it in some loving and mournful songs under the veil of a feigned name. And so one night, thinking that neither Timbrio nor anyone else was listening to me, to comfort somewhat my wearied spirit, in a retired apartment, to the accompaniment only of a lute, I sang some verses, which, as they placed me in the direst turmoil, I shall have to repeat to you. They were as follows:

'It resulted from my being so transported in my endless imaginings that I did not take heed to sing these verses I have repeated, in a voice as low as I ought, nor was the place where I was so secret as to prevent their being listened to by Timbrio; and when he heard them, it came into his mind that mine was not free from love, and that if I felt any, it was for Nisida, as could be gathered from my song; and though he discovered the true state of my thoughts, he did not discover that of my wishes, but rather understanding them to be contrary to what I did think, he decided to depart that very night and go to where he might be found by nobody, only to leave me the opportunity of alone serving Nisida. All this I learnt from a page of his, who was acquainted with all his secrets, who came to me in great distress and said to me: "Help, SeÑor Silerio, for Timbrio, my master and your friend, wishes to leave us and go away this night. He has not told me where, but only that I should get for him I do not know how much money, and that I should tell no one he is going, especially telling me not to tell you: and this thought came to him after he had been listening to some verse or other you were singing just now. To judge from the excessive grief I have seen him display, I think he is on the verge of despair; and as it seems to me that I ought rather to assist in his cure than to obey his command, I come to tell it to you, as to one who can intervene to prevent him putting into practice so fatal a purpose." With strange dread I listened to what the page told me, and went straightway to see Timbrio in his apartment, and, before I went in, I stopped to see what he was doing. He was stretched on his bed, face downwards, shedding countless tears accompanied by deep sighs, and with a low voice and broken words, it seemed to me that he was saying this: "Seek, my true friend Silerio, to win the fruit your solicitude and toil has well deserved, and do not seek, by what you think you owe to friendship for me, to fail to gratify your desire, for I will restrain mine, though it be with the extreme means of death; for, since you freed me from it, when with such love and fortitude you offered yourself to the fierceness of a thousand swords, it is not much that I should now repay you in part for so good a deed by giving you the opportunity to enjoy her in whom Heaven summed up all its beauty, and love set all my happiness, without the hindrance my presence can cause you. One thing only grieves me, sweet friend, and it is that I cannot bid you farewell at this bitter parting, but accept for excuse that you are the cause of it. Oh, Nisida, Nisida! how true is it of your beauty, that he who dares to look upon it must needs atone for his fault by the penalty of dying for it! Silerio saw it, and if he had not been so struck with it as I believe he has been, he would have lost with me much of the reputation he had for discretion. But since my fortune has so willed it, let Heaven know that I am no less Silerio's friend than he is mine; and, as tokens of this truth, let Timbrio part himself from his glory, exile himself from his bliss, and go wandering from land to land, away from Silerio and Nisida, the two true and better halves of his soul." And straightway, with much passion, he rose from the bed, opened the door, and finding me there said to me: "What do you want, friend, at such an hour? Is there perchance any news?" "Such news there is," I answered him, "that I had not been sorry though it were less." In a word, not to weary you, I got so far with him, that I persuaded him and gave him to understand that his fancy was false, not as to the fact of my being in love, but as to the person with whom, for it was not with Nisida, but with her sister Blanca; and I knew how to tell him this in such a way that he counted it true. And that he might credit it the more, memory offered me some stanzas which I myself had made many days before, to another lady of the same name, which I told him I had composed for Nisida's sister. And they were so much to the purpose, that though it be outside the purpose to repeat them now, I cannot pass them by in silence. They were these:

SILERIO.

Silerio would have gone further with his story, had he not been stopped by the sound of many pipes and attuned flageolets, which was heard at their backs; and, turning their heads, they saw coming towards them about a dozen gay shepherds, set in two lines, and in the midst came a comely herdsman, crowned with a garland of honeysuckle and other different flowers. He carried a staff in one hand; and with staid step advanced little by little, and the other shepherds, with the same success, all playing their instruments, gave pleasing and rare token of themselves. As soon as Elicio saw them, he recognised that Daranio was the shepherd they brought in the midst, and that the others were all neighbours, who wished to be present at his wedding, to which also Thyrsis and Damon had come; and to gladden the betrothal feast, and to honour the bridegroom, they were proceeding in that manner towards the village. But Thyrsis, seeing that their coming had imposed silence upon Silerio's story, asked him to spend that night together with them all in the village, where he would be waited upon with all the good-will possible, and might satisfy their wishes by finishing the incident he had begun. Silerio promised this, and at the same moment came up the band of joyous shepherds, who, recognising Elicio, and Daranio Thyrsis and Damon, his friends, welcomed one another with tokens of great joy; and renewing the music, and renewing their happiness, they turned to pursue the road they had begun. Now that they were coming nigh to the village, there came to their ears the sound of the pipe of the unloving Lenio, whereat they all received no little pleasure, for they already knew his extreme disposition, and so, when Lenio saw and knew them, without interrupting his sweet song, he came towards them singing as follows:

LENIO.

As Lenio ceased singing, he was courteously received by all the shepherds, and when he heard them name Damon and Thyrsis, whom he only knew by repute, he was astonished at seeing their admirable bearing, and so he said to them:

'What encomiums would suffice, though they were the best that could be found in eloquence, to have the power of exalting and applauding your worth, famous shepherds, if perchance love's follies were not mingled with the truths of your renowned writings? But since you are in love's decline, a disease to all appearance incurable, though my rude talents may pay you your due in valuing and praising your rare discretion, it will be impossible for me to avoid blaming your thoughts.'

'If you had yours, discreet Lenio,' replied Thyrsis, 'without the shadows of the idle opinion which fills them, you would straightway see the brightness of ours, and that they deserve more glory and praise for being loving, than for any subtlety or discretion they might contain.'

'No more, Thyrsis, no more,' replied Lenio, 'for I know well that with such great and such obstinate foes my reasonings will have little force.'

'If they had force,' answered Elicio, 'those who are here are such friends of truth, that not even in jest would they contradict it, and herein you can see, Lenio, how far you go from it, since there is no one to approve your words, or even to hold your intentions good.'

'Then in faith,' said Lenio, 'may your intentions not save you, oh Elicio, but let the air tell it, which you ever increase with sighs, and the grass of these meadows which grows with your tears, and the verses you sang the other day and wrote on the beeches of this wood, for in them will be seen what it is you praise in yourself and blame in me.'

Lenio would not have remained without a reply, had they not seen coming to where they were the fair Galatea, with the discreet shepherdesses Florisa and Teolinda, who, not to be recognised by Damon and Thyrsis, had placed a white veil before her fair face. They came and were received by the shepherds with joyous welcome, especially by the lovers Elicio and Erastro, who felt such strange content at the sight of Galatea, that Erastro, being unable to conceal it, in token thereof, without any one asking it of him, beckoned to Elicio to play his pipe, to the sound of which, with joyous and sweet accents, he sang the following verses:

ERASTRO.

Here Erastro ended his song, and the way was ended of going to the village, where Thyrsis, Damon and Silerio repaired to Elicio's house, so that the opportunity might not be lost of learning the end of the story of Silerio, which he had begun. The fair shepherdesses, Galatea and Florisa, offering to be present on the coming day at Daranio's wedding, left the shepherds, and all or most remained with the bridegroom, whilst the girls went to their houses. And that same night, Silerio, being urged by his friend Erastro, and by the desire which wearied him to return to his hermitage, ended the sequel of his story, as will be seen in the following book.

FOOTNOTES: