With great desire the fair Teolinda awaited the coming day to take leave of Galatea and Florisa and to finish searching by all the banks of the Tagus for her dear Artidoro, intending to end her life in sad and bitter solitude, if she were so poor in fortune as to learn no news of her beloved shepherd. The wished-for hour, then, having come, when the sun was beginning to spread his rays over the earth, she arose, and, with tears in her eyes, asked leave of the two shepherdesses to prosecute her quest. They with many reasonings urged her to wait some days more in their company, Galatea offering to her to send one of her father's shepherds to search for Artidoro by all the banks of the Tagus, and wherever it might be thought he could be found. Teolinda thanked her for her offers, but would not do what they asked of her, nay rather, after having shown in the best words she could the obligation in which she lay to cherish all the days of her life the favours she had received from them, she embraced them with tender feeling and begged them not to detain her a single hour. Then Galatea and Florisa, seeing how vainly they wrought in thinking to detain her, charged her to try to inform them of any incident, good or bad, that might befall her in that loving quest, assuring her of the pleasure they would feel at her happiness, and of their pain at her misery. Teolinda offered to be herself the one to bring the tidings of her good fortune, since, if they were bad, life would not have patience to endure them, and so it would be superfluous to learn them from her. With this promise of Teolinda Galatea and Florisa were content, and they determined to accompany her some distance from the place. And so, the two only taking their crooks, and having furnished Teolinda's wallet with some victuals for the toilsome journey, they went forth with her from the village at a time when the sun's rays were already beginning to strike the earth more directly and with greater force. And having accompanied her almost half a league from the place, at the moment they were intending to return and leave her, they saw four men on horseback and some on foot crossing by some broken ground which lay a little off their way. At once they recognised them to be hunters by their attire and by the hawks and dogs they had with them, and whilst they were looking at them with attention to see if they knew them, they saw two shepherdesses of gallant bearing and spirit come out from among some thick bushes which were near the broken ground; they had their faces muffled with two white linen kerchiefs, and one of them, raising her voice, asked the hunters to stop, which they did; and both coming up to one of them, who from his bearing and figure seemed the chief of all, seized the reins of his horse and stood awhile talking with him without the three shepherdesses being able to hear a word of what they said, because of the distance from the spot which prevented it. They only saw that after they had talked with him a little while, the horseman dismounted, and having, as far as could be judged, bidden those who accompanied him to return, only a boy remaining with his horse, he took the two shepherdesses by the hands and gradually began to enter with them into a thick wood that was there. The three shepherdesses, Galatea, Florisa, and Teolinda, seeing this, determined to see, if they could, who the masked shepherdesses, and the horseman who escorted them were. And so they agreed to go round by a part of the wood, and see if they could place themselves in some part which might be such as to satisfy them in what they desired. And acting in the manner they had intended, they overtook the horseman and the shepherdesses, and Galatea, watching through the branches what they were doing, saw that they turned to the right and plunged into the thickest part of the wood; and straightway they followed them in their very footsteps until the horseman and the shepherdesses, thinking they were well within the wood, halted in the middle of a narrow little meadow which was surrounded by countless thickets of bramble. Galatea and her companions came so near that without being seen or perceived, they saw all the horseman and the shepherdesses did and said; and when the latter had looked on all sides to see if they could be seen by anyone, and were assured on this point, one removed her veil, and scarcely had she done so when she was recognised by Teolinda, who, approaching Galatea's ear, said to her in as low a voice as she could:

'This is a very strange adventure; for, unless it be that I have lost my understanding from the grief I suffer, without any doubt that shepherdess who has removed her veil, is the fair Rosaura, daughter of Roselio, lord of a village near ours, and I know not what can be the reason that has moved her to adopt so strange a garb and to leave her district,—things which speak so much to the detriment of her honour. But, alas, hapless one!' added Teolinda, 'for the horseman who is with her is Grisaldo, eldest son of rich Laurencio, who owns two villages close to this of yours.'

'You speak truth, Teolinda,' replied Galatea, 'for I know him; but be silent and keep quiet, for we shall soon see the purpose of his coming here.'

Thereat Teolinda was still, and set herself attentively to watch what Rosaura was doing. She, going up to the horseman, who seemed about twenty years old, began to say to him with troubled voice and angry countenance:

'We are in a spot, faithless man, where I may take the wished for vengeance for your lack of love and your neglect. But though I took it on you in such a way that it would cost you your life, it were little recompense for the wrong you have done me. Here am I, unrecognised so as to recognise you, Grisaldo, who failed to recognise my love; here is one who changed her garb to seek for you, she who never changed her will to love you. Consider, ungrateful and loveless one, that she who in her own house and amongst her servants scarce could move a step, now for your sake goes from vale to vale, and from ridge to ridge, amidst such loneliness seeking your companionship.'

To all these words the fair Rosaura was uttering, the horseman listened with his eyes fixed on the ground, and making lines on the earth with the point of a hunting knife he held in his hand. But Rosaura, not content with what she had said, pursued her discourse with words such as these:

'Tell me, do you know peradventure, do you know, Grisaldo, that I am she who not long ago dried your tears, stayed your sighs, healed your pains, and above all, she who believed your words? or perchance do you understand that you are he who thought all the oaths that could be imagined feeble and of no strength to assure me of the truth with which you deceived me? Are you by chance, Grisaldo, he whose countless tears softened the hardness of my pure heart? It is you, for indeed I see you, and it is I, for indeed I know myself. But if you are the Grisaldo of my belief, and I am Rosaura, as you think her to be, fulfil to me the word you gave me, and I will give you the promise I have never denied you. They have told me that you are marrying Leopersia, Marcelio's daughter, so gladly that it is actually you who are wooing her; if this news has caused me sorrow, can well be seen by what I have done in coming to prevent its fulfilment, and if you can confirm it, I leave the matter to your conscience. What do you reply to this, mortal enemy of my peace? Do you admit perchance, by your silence, that which it were right should not pass even through your thought. Now raise your eyes and set them on those that beheld you to their hurt; lift them and behold her whom you are deceiving, whom you are abandoning and forgetting. You will see, if you ponder it well, that you are deceiving her who always spoke truth to you, you are abandoning her who has abandoned her honour and herself to follow you, you are forgetting her who never banished you from her memory. Consider, Grisaldo, that in birth I am your equal, that in wealth I am not your inferior, and that I excel you in goodness of heart and in firmness of faith. Fulfil to me, sir, the faith you gave me, if you are proud to be a gentleman, and are not ashamed to be a Christian. Behold, if you do not respond to what you owe me, I will pray Heaven to punish you, fire to burn you, air to fail you, water to drown you, earth not to endure you, and my kinsmen to avenge me! Behold, if you fail in your duty towards me, you will have in me a perpetual disturber of your joys so long as my life shall last, and even after I am dead, if it may be, I shall with constant shadows affright your faithless spirit, and with frightful visions torment your deceiving eyes! Mark that I but ask what is my own, and that by giving it you gain what you lose by refusing it! Now move your tongue to undeceive me for the many times you have moved it to wound me!'

Saying this, the fair lady was silent, and for a short while was waiting to see what Grisaldo replied. He, raising his face, which up till then he had kept down, crimsoned with the shame Rosaura's words had caused in him, with calm voice replied to her in this wise:

'If I sought to deny, oh Rosaura, that I am your debtor in more than what you say, I would likewise deny that the sunlight is bright, and would even say that fire is cold and air solid. So that herein I confess what I owe you, and am obliged to pay it; but for me to confess that I can pay you as you wish is impossible, for my father's command has forbidden it, and your cruel disdain has rendered it impossible. Nor do I wish to call any other witness to this truth than yourself, as one who knows so well how many times and with what tears I begged you to accept me as your husband, and to deign to permit me to fulfil the word I had given you to be it. And you, for the reasons you fancied, or because you thought it was well to respond to Artandro's vain promises, never wished matters to come to such an issue; but rather went on from day to day putting me off, and making trials of my firmness, though you could make sure of it in every way by accepting me for your own. You also know, Rosaura, the desire my father had to settle me in life, and the haste he showed in the matter, bringing forward the rich and honourable marriages you know of, and how I with a thousand excuses held aloof from his importunities, always telling you of them, so that you should no longer defer what suited you so well and what I desired; and that after all this I told you one day that my father's wish was for me to marry Leopersia, and you, on hearing Leopersia's name, in a desperate rage told me to speak to you no more, and that I might marry Leopersia with your blessing, or anyone I liked better. You know also that I urged you many times to cease those jealous frenzies, for I was yours and not Leopersia's, and that you would never receive my excuses, nor yield to my prayers, but rather, persevering in your obstinacy and hardness, and in favouring Artandro, you sent to tell me that it would give you pleasure that I should never see you more. I did what you bade me, and, so as to have no opportunity to transgress your bidding, seeing also that I was fulfilling that of my father, I resolved to marry Leopersia, or at least I shall marry her to-morrow, for so it is agreed between her kinsmen and mine; wherefore you see, Rosaura, how guiltless I am of the charge you lay against me, and how late you have come to know the injustice with which you treated me. But that you may not judge me henceforward to be as ungrateful as you have pictured me in your fancy, see if there is anything wherein I can satisfy your wish, for, so it be not to marry you, I will hazard, to serve you, property, life and honour.'

While Grisaldo was saying these words, the fair Rosaura kept her eyes riveted on his face, shedding through them so many tears that they showed full well the grief she felt in her soul. But, seeing that Grisaldo was silent, heaving a deep and woful sigh, she said to him:

'As it cannot be, oh Grisaldo, that your green years should have a long and skilled experience of the countless accidents of love, I do not wonder that a little disdain of mine has placed you in the freedom you boast of; but if you knew that jealous fears are the spurs which make love quicken his pace, you would see clearly that those I had about Leopersia, redounded to make me love you more. But as you made such sport of my affairs, on the slightest pretext that you could conceive, you revealed the little love in your breast, and confirmed my true suspicions; and in such a way that tells me you are marrying Leopersia to-morrow. But I assure you, before you bear her to the marriage-couch, you must bear me to the tomb, unless, indeed, you are so cruel as to refuse to give one to the dead body of her over whose soul you were always absolute lord. And, that you may know clearly and see that she who lost for you her modesty, and exposed her honour to harm, will count it little to lose her life, this sharp poniard which here I hold will accomplish my desperate and honourable purpose, and will be a witness of the cruelty you hold in that false breast of yours.'

And saying this she drew from her bosom a naked dagger, and with great haste was going to plunge it in her heart, had not Grisaldo with greater speed seized her arm, and had not the veiled shepherdess, her companion, hurried to close with her. Grisaldo and the shepherdess were a long while before they took the dagger from the hands of Rosaura, who said to Grisaldo:

'Permit me, traitorous foe, to end at once the tragedy of my life, without your loveless disdain making me experience death so often.'

'You shall not taste of death on my account,' replied Grisaldo, 'since I would rather that my father should fail in the word he has given to Leopersia on my behalf, than that I should fail at all in what I know I owe you. Calm your breast, Rosaura, since I assure you that this breast of mine can desire naught save what may be to your happiness.'

At these loving words of Grisaldo, Rosaura awakened from the death of her sorrow to the life of her joy, and, without ceasing to weep, knelt down before Grisaldo, begging for his hands in token of the favour he did her. Grisaldo did the same, and threw his arms round her neck; for a long while they remained without power to say a word one to the other, both shedding many loving tears. The veiled shepherdess, seeing her companion's happy fortune, wearied by the fatigue she had sustained in helping to take the dagger from Rosaura, being unable to bear her veil any longer, took it off, disclosing a face so like Teolinda's, that Galatea and Florisa were amazed to see it. But Teolinda was more so, since, without being able to conceal it, she raised her voice, saying:

'Oh Heavens, and what is it that I see? Is not this by chance my sister Leonarda, the disturber of my repose? She it is without a doubt.'

And, without further delay, she came out from where she was, and with her Galatea and Florisa; and as the other shepherdess saw Teolinda, straightway she recognised her, and with open arms they ran one to the other, wondering to have found each other in such a place, and at such a time and juncture. Then Grisaldo and Rosaura, seeing what Leonarda was doing with Teolinda, and that they had been discovered by the shepherdesses Galatea and Florisa, arose, with no small shame that they had been found by them in that fashion, and, drying their tears, with reserve and courtesy received the shepherdesses, who were at once recognised by Grisaldo. But the discreet Galatea, in order to change into confidence the displeasure that perchance the two loving shepherds had felt at seeing her, said to them with that grace, with which she said everything:

'Be not troubled by our coming, happy Grisaldo and Rosaura, for it will merely serve to increase your joy, since it has been shared with one who will always have joy in serving you. Our fortune has ordained that we should see you, and in a part where no part of your thoughts has been concealed from us, and since Heaven has brought them to so happy a pass, in satisfaction thereof calm your breasts and pardon our boldness.'

'Never has your presence, fair Galatea,' replied Grisaldo, 'failed to give pleasure wherever it might be; and this truth being so well known, we are rather under an obligation at sight of you, than annoyed at your coming.'

With these there passed some other courteous words, far different from those that passed between Leonarda and Teolinda, who, after having embraced once and yet again, with tender words, mingled with loving tears, demanded the story of each other's adventures, filling all those that were there with amazement at seeing them, for they resembled each other so closely, that they could almost be called not alike, but one and the same; and had it not been that Teolinda's dress was different from Leonarda's, without a doubt Galatea and Florisa could not have distinguished them; and then they saw with what reason Artidoro had been deceived in thinking that Leonarda was Teolinda. But when Florisa saw that the sun was about midway in the sky, and that it would be well to seek some shade to protect them from its rays, or at least to return to the village, since, as the opportunity failed them to pasture their sheep, they ought not to be so long in the meadow, she said to Teolinda and Leonarda:

'There will be time, shepherdesses, when with greater ease you can satisfy our desires, and give us a longer account of your thoughts, and for the present let us seek where we may spend the rigour of the noon-tide heat that threatens us, either by a fresh spring that is at the outlet of the valley we are leaving behind, or in returning to the village, where Leonarda will be treated with the kindness which you, Teolinda, have experienced from Galatea and myself. And if I make this offer only to you, shepherdesses, it is not because I forget Grisaldo and Rosaura, but because it seems to me that I cannot offer to their worth and deserving more than good-will.'

'This shall not be wanting in me as long as life shall last,' replied Grisaldo, 'the will to do, shepherdess, what may be to your service, since the kindness you show us cannot be paid with less; but since it appears to me that it will be well to do what you say, and because I have learnt that you are not ignorant of what has passed between me and Rosaura, I do not wish to waste your time or mine in referring to it, I only ask you to be kind enough to take Rosaura in your company to your village, whilst I prepare in mine some things which are necessary to fulfil what our hearts desire; and in order that Rosaura may be free from suspicion, and may never cherish suspicion of the good faith of my intentions, with deliberate will on my part, you being witnesses thereof, I give her my hand to be her true husband.'

And, saying this, he stretched out his hand, and took fair Rosaura's, and she was so beside herself to see what Grisaldo did, that she scarce could answer him a word, only she allowed him to take her hand, and a little while after said:

'Love had brought me, Grisaldo, my lord, to such a pass, that, with less than you have done for me, I would remain for ever your debtor; but since you have wished to have regard rather for what you yourself are, than for my deserving, I shall do what in me lies, which is to give you my soul anew in recompense for this favour, and may Heaven give you the reward for so welcome a kindness.'

'No more, no more, my friends,' said Galatea at this moment, 'for where deeds are so true, excessive compliments must find no place. What remains is to pray Heaven to lead to a happy issue these beginnings, and that you may enjoy your love in a long and beneficent peace. And as for what you say, Grisaldo, that Rosaura should come to our village, the favour you do us therein is so great, that we ourselves beg it of you.'

'So gladly will I go in your company,' said Rosaura, 'that I know not how to enhance it more than by telling you that I will not much regret Grisaldo's absence, when I am in your company.'

'Then come,' said Florisa, 'for the village is far away, and the sun strong, and our delay in returning there conspicuous. You, seÑor Grisaldo, can go and do what you wish, for in Galatea's house you will find Rosaura, and these, or rather this one shepherdess, for being so much alike, they ought not to be called two.'

'Be it as you wish,' said Grisaldo; and, he taking Rosaura by the hand, they all went from the wood, having agreed among themselves that Grisaldo should on the morrow send a shepherd, from the many his father had, to tell Rosaura what she was to do, and that this shepherd, when sent, might be able to speak to Galatea or to Florisa without being observed, and give the instructions that suited best. This agreement seemed good to all, and, having come out from the wood, Grisaldo saw that his servant was waiting for him with the horse, and embracing Rosaura anew, and taking leave of the shepherdesses, he went away accompanied with tears and by Rosaura's eyes, which never left him until they lost him from sight. As the shepherdesses were left alone, straightway Teolinda went away with Leonarda, in the desire to learn the cause of her coming. And Rosaura, too, as she went, related to Galatea and to Florisa the occasion that had moved her to take a shepherdess's dress, and to come to look for Grisaldo, saying:

'It would not cause you wonder, fair shepherdesses, to see me in this dress, if you knew how far love's mighty power extends, which makes those who love well change not only their garb, but will and soul, in the way that is most to its taste, and I had lost my love for ever, had I not availed myself of the artifice of this dress. For you must know, my friends, that, as I was in Leonarda's village, of which my father is the lord, Grisaldo came to it with the intention of being there some days, engaged in the pleasing pastime of the chase; and as my father was a great friend of his father, he arranged to receive him in the house, and to offer him all the hospitality that he could. This he did; and Grisaldo's coming to my house resulted in driving me from it; for indeed, though it be at the cost of my shame, I must tell you that the sight, the converse, and the worth of Grisaldo made such an impression on my soul, that, without knowing how, when he had been there a few days, I came to be quite beside myself, and neither wished nor was able to exist without making him master of my freedom. However, it was not so heedlessly but that I was first satisfied that Grisaldo's wish did not differ in any way from mine, as he gave me to understand with many very true tokens. I then, being convinced of this truth, and seeing how well it pleased me to have Grisaldo for husband, came to acquiesce in his desires, and to put mine into effect; and so, by the mediation of a handmaiden of mine, Grisaldo and I saw each other many times in a secluded corridor, without our being alone extending further than for us to see each other, and for him to give me the word, which to-day he has given me again with more force in your presence. My sad fortune then decreed, that at the time I was enjoying so sweet a state, there came also to visit my father a valiant gentleman from AragÓn, who was called Artandro; he being overcome, according to what he showed, by my beauty, if I have any, sought with the greatest solicitude that I should marry him without my father knowing it. Meanwhile Grisaldo had sought to carry out his purpose, and I, showing myself somewhat harsher than was necessary, kept putting him off with words, with the intention that my father should set about marrying me, and that then Grisaldo should seek me for his wife; but he did not wish to do this, since he was aware that his father's wish was to marry him to the rich and beauteous Leopersia, for you must know her well by the report of her riches and beauty. This came to my knowledge, and I took the opportunity to try to make him jealous of me, though feignedly, merely to make trial of the sincerity of his faith; and I was so careless, or rather so simple, that thinking I gained something thereby, I began to show some favours to Artandro. Grisaldo, seeing this, often declared to me the pain he felt at my dealings with Artandro, and he even informed me that if it was not my wish that he should fulfil to me the word he had given me, he could not fail to obey the wish of his parents. To all these words of warning and advice I replied unadvisedly, full of pride and arrogance, confident that the bonds which my beauty had cast over Grisaldo's soul could not be so easily broken, or even touched, by any other beauty. But my confidence turned out to be much mistaken, as Grisaldo soon showed me, who, wearied of my foolish and scornful disdain, saw fit to leave me and to obey his father's behest. But scarcely had he gone from my village and left my presence, when I recognised the error into which I had fallen, and with such force did Grisaldo's absence and jealousy of Leopersia begin to torment me that his absence overwhelmed me and jealousy of her consumed me. Considering then, that, if my remedy were deferred, I must leave my life in the hands of grief, I resolved to risk losing the lesser, which in my opinion was reputation, in order to gain the greater, which is Grisaldo. And so, on the pretext I gave my father, of going to see an aunt of mine, the mistress of another village near ours, I left my home, accompanied by many of my father's servants, and when I reached my aunt's house, I disclosed to her all my secret thoughts, and asked her to be kind enough to allow me to put on this dress and come to speak to Grisaldo, assuring her that if I did not come myself, my affairs would have a poor issue. She consented to this on condition that I took with me Leonarda, as one in whom she had much confidence. I sent for her to our village and procured this garb, and, bearing in mind some things which we two had to do, we took leave of her eight days ago; and, though we came to Grisaldo's village six days ago, we have never been able to find an opportunity of speaking to him alone, as I desired, until this morning, when I knew he was going to the chase. I awaited him in the same place where he took leave of us, and there has passed between us what you, friends, have seen, at which happy issue I am as happy as it is right she should be who desired it so much. This, shepherdesses, is the story of my life, and if I have wearied you in telling it you, throw the blame on the desire you had to know it, and on mine which could not do less than satisfy you.'

'Nay, rather,' replied Florisa, 'we are so grateful for the favour you have done us, that, though we may always busy ourselves in your service we shall not escape from the debt.'

'I am the one who remains in debt,' answered Rosaura, 'and who will seek to repay it as my powers may allow. But, leaving this aside, turn your eyes, shepherdesses, and you will see those of Teolinda and Leonarda so full of tears that they will move yours without fail to accompany them therein.'

Galatea and Florisa turned to look at them, and saw that what Rosaura said was true. What caused the weeping of the two sisters was that after Leonarda had told her sister all that Rosaura had related to Galatea and Florisa, she said to her:

'You must know, sister, that, as you were missing from our village, it was thought that the shepherd Artidoro had taken you away, for that same day he too was missing without taking leave of anyone. I confirmed this opinion in my parents, because I told them what had passed with Artidoro in the forest. With this evidence the suspicion increased, and my father determined to go in search of you and of Artidoro, and in fact would have done so had not there come to our village two days afterwards a shepherd whom all took for Artidoro when they saw him. When the news reached my father that your ravisher was there, straightway he came with the constables to where the shepherd was, and they asked him if he knew you or where he had taken you to. The shepherd denied on oath that he had ever seen you in all his life, or that he knew what it was they were asking him about. All that were present wondered to see the shepherd denying that he knew you, since he had been ten days in the village and had spoken and danced with you many a time, and without any doubt all believed that Artidoro was guilty of what was imputed to him. Without wishing to admit his defence or to hear a word from him, they took him to prison, where he remained without anyone speaking to him for some days, at the end of which, when they came to take his confession, he swore again that he did not know you, nor in all his life had he been more than that once in that village, and that they should consider—and this he had said at other times—whether the Artidoro they thought he was, was not by chance a brother of his, who resembled him so exactly as truth would reveal when it showed them that they had deceived themselves in taking him for Artidoro; for he was called Galercio, son of Briseno, a native of Grisaldo's village. And, in fact, he gave such indications and showed such proofs that all clearly saw that he was not Artidoro, whereat they were more amazed, saying that such a marvel as that of my likeness to you, and Galercio's to Artidoro, had not been seen in the world. This announcement concerning Galercio moved me to go and see him many times where he was confined; and the sight of him was such that I was deprived of sight, at least for the purpose of seeing things to give me pleasure, so long as I did not see Galercio. But the worst of it is, sister, that he went from the village without knowing that he took with him my freedom, nor had I the opportunity of telling it him, and so I remained with such a grief as may be imagined, until Rosaura's aunt sent for me for a few days, all for the purpose of coming to accompany Rosaura; whereat I felt extreme joy, for I knew that we were going to Galercio's village, and that there I might make him acquainted with his debt to me. But I have been so poor in fortune that we have been four days in his village and I have never seen him, though I have asked for him, and they tell me that he is in the country with his flock. I have also asked for Artidoro, and they have told me that for some days he has not appeared in the village; and, in order not to leave Rosaura, I have not taken an opportunity of going to look for Galercio, from whom it might be possible to learn news of Artidoro. This is what has happened to me, besides what you have seen with Grisaldo, since you have been missing, sister, from the village.'

Teolinda was astonished at what her sister told her; but when she came to know that in Artidoro's village no news was known of him, she could not restrain her tears, though she consoled herself in part, believing that Galercio would have news of his brother; and so she resolved to go next day to look for Galercio wherever he might be. And having told her sister as briefly as she could all that had happened to her since she went in search of Artidoro, Teolinda embraced her again and returned to where the shepherdesses were. They were walking along a little distance from the road, in among some trees which protected them a little from the heat of the sun. Teolinda coming up to them told them all that her sister had said to her concerning the issue of her love, and the likeness of Galercio and Artidoro; whereat they wondered not a little, though Galatea said:

'Whoever sees the strange likeness there is between you, Teolinda, and your sister, cannot wonder though he sees others, since no likeness, as I believe, is equal to yours.'

'There is no doubt,' replied Leonarda, 'but that the likeness there is between Artidoro and Galercio is so great that, if it does not surpass ours, at least it will be in no way behind it.'

'May Heaven please,' said Florisa, 'that as you four resemble one another, so may you agree and be like one another in fortune, that which fate grants to your desires being so good that all the world may envy your joys, as it wonders at your likenesses.'

Teolinda would have replied to these words, had not a voice they heard issuing from among the trees prevented it; and all stopping to listen to it, they straightway recognised that it was the voice of the shepherd Lauso, whereat Galatea and Florisa felt great joy, for they wished very much to know of whom Lauso was enamoured, and believed that what the shepherd should sing would relieve them of this doubt, and for this reason, without moving from where they were, they listened to him in the greatest silence. The shepherd was seated at the foot of a green willow, accompanied by his thoughts alone, and by a little rebeck, to the sound of which he sang in this wise:

The enamoured shepherd sang no more, nor from what he had sung could the shepherdesses come to the knowledge of what they desired, for, though Lauso named Silena in his song, the shepherdess was not known by this name; and so they imagined that, as Lauso had gone through many parts of Spain, and even of all Asia and Europe, it would be some foreign shepherdess who had subdued his free will; but when they considered again that they had seen him a few days before triumphing in his freedom and making mock of lovers, they believed beyond a doubt, that under a feigned name he was celebrating some well-known shepherdess whom he had made mistress of his thoughts; and so, without being satisfied in their suspicion, they went towards the village, leaving the shepherd in the same place where he was. But they had not gone far when they saw coming from a distance some shepherds who were straightway recognised, for they were Thyrsis, Damon, Elicio, Erastro, Arsindo, Francenio, Crisio, Orompo, Daranio, Orfenio, and Marsilio, with all the chief shepherds of the village, and among them, the loveless Lenio with the hapless Silerio, who came to pass the noon-tide heat at the spring of slates, in the shade made in that place by the interwoven branches of the dense green trees. Before the shepherds approached, Teolinda, Leonarda and Rosaura took care each to veil herself with a white cloth that they might not be recognised by Thyrsis and Damon. The shepherds approached, offering courteous greetings to the shepherdesses, inviting them to consent to spend the noon-tide heat in their company; but Galatea excused herself by saying that the strange shepherdesses who came with her, must needs go to the village; therewith she took leave of them, drawing after her the souls of Elicio and Erastro, and the veiled shepherdesses likewise the desires of all who were there to know them. They betook themselves to the village, and the shepherds to the cool spring, but before they reached there, Silerio took leave of all, asking permission to return to his hermitage; and though Thyrsis, Damon, Elicio, and Erastro begged him to remain with them for that day, they could not prevail with him; nay rather he embraced them all and took his leave, charging and begging Erastro not to fail to visit him every time he passed by his hermitage. Erastro promised it him, and therewith, he turned aside, and accompanied by his constant sorrow, returned to the solitude of his hermitage, leaving the shepherds not without grief to see the straitness of life he had chosen when his years were yet green; but it was felt most among those who knew him and were acquainted with the quality and worth of his person. When the shepherds came to the spring, they found there three gentlemen and two fair ladies who were journeying, and being wearied with fatigue and invited by the pleasing and cool spot, it seemed good to them to leave the road they were following, and spend there the sultry hours of the noon-tide heat. There came with them some servants, so that they showed by their appearance that they were persons of quality. The shepherds, when they saw them, would have left the spot free to them; but one of the gentlemen, who seemed the chief, seeing that the shepherds in their courtesy wished to go to another place, said to them:

'If it was by chance your pleasure, gallant shepherds, to spend the noon-tide heat in this delightful spot, let not our company hinder you from it, but rather do us the favour of increasing our pleasure with your company, since your noble disposition and manner promise no less: and, the place being, as it is, so adapted for a greater number of people, you will grieve me and these ladies, if you do not agree to what I ask you in their name and mine.'

'By doing, sir, what you bid us,' replied Elicio, 'we shall fulfil our desire, which did not for the moment extend beyond coming to this place to spend here in pleasant converse the tedious hours of the noon-tide heat; and, though our purpose were different, we would change it merely to do what you ask.'

'I am grateful,' replied the gentleman, 'for tokens of such good-will, and in order that I may be the more assured of it and gratified thereby, be seated, shepherds, around this cool spring, where with some things which these ladies have with them for refreshment by the way, you may awake your thirst and quench it in the cool waters this clear spring offers us.'

All did so, constrained by his fair courtesy. Up to this point the ladies had kept their faces covered with two rich veils; but, seeing that the shepherds were remaining, they revealed themselves, revealing a beauty so strange that it caused great astonishment in all who saw it, for it seemed to them that after Galatea's there could be on earth no other beauty to match it. The two ladies were equally beautiful, though one of them, who seemed the older, excelled the smaller one in a certain grace and spirit. All being seated then, and at their ease, the second gentleman, who up till then had spoken nothing, said:

'When I stop to consider, amiable shepherds, the advantage your humble shepherds' ways have over the proud ways of the courtier, I cannot fail to have pity for myself and honourable envy of you.'

'Why do you say that, friend Darinto?' said the other gentleman.

'I say it, sir,' replied the former, 'because I see with what care you and I, and those who follow our ways, seek to adorn our persons, to nourish our bodies, and to increase our property, and how little it comes to profit us, since the purple, the gold, the brocade, and our faces are faded from badly digested victuals, eaten at odd hours, and as costly as they are wasteful, and since they adorn us in no way, nor beautify us, nor suffice to make us look better in the eyes of those who behold us. And all this you can see is different in those who follow the rustic pursuits of the field, proving it by those you have before you, who, it might be and even is the case, have been nourished and are nourished on simple victuals, in every way different from the wasteful composition of ours. And, besides, see the tan of their faces, which promises a state of health more perfect than the sickly pallor of ours, and how well a jerkin of white wool, a grey bonnet and some gaiters of whatsoever colour suit their robust and supple limbs; whereby they must appear more handsome in the eyes of their shepherdesses, than gay courtiers in those of modest ladies. What could I say to you, then, if I were minded, of the simplicity of their life, the sincerity of their character, and the purity of their love? I say no more to you, save that what I know of the shepherd's life has such power with me, that gladly would I exchange mine for it.'

'We shepherds are all indebted to you,' said Elicio, 'for the good opinion you have of us, but nevertheless I can tell you that in our country life there are as many slippery places and toils as are contained in your courtier's life.'

'I cannot but agree with what you say,' replied Darinto, 'for indeed it is well known that our life on earth is a war; but after all in the shepherd's life there is less of it than in that of the town, for it is more free from causes that may move and disquiet the spirit.'

'How well agrees with your opinion, Darinto,' said Damon, 'that of a shepherd friend of mine, called Lauso, who, after having spent some years in a courtier's pursuits, and some others in the toilsome pursuits of cruel Mars, has at last been brought to the poverty of our country life, and before he came to it, he showed that he much desired it, as appears by a song he composed and sent to the famous Larsileo, who has a long and practised experience in affairs of the court; and, because I saw fit to do so, I committed it all to memory, and would even repeat it to you, if I thought that time would permit it, and that it would not weary you to listen to it.'

'Nothing will give us greater pleasure than to listen to you, discreet Damon,' replied Darinto, calling Damon by his name, for he already knew it from having heard the other shepherds, his friends, name him; 'and so I for my part beg you to repeat to us Lauso's song, for since it is composed, as you say, to suit my case, and you have committed it to memory, it will be impossible for it not to be good.'

Damon began to repent of what he had said, and sought to escape from his promise; but the gentlemen and ladies and all the shepherds begged it of him so much, that he could not escape repeating it. And so, having composed himself a little, with admirable grace and charm he spoke in this wise:

DAMON.

'This, gentlemen, is Lauso's song,' said Damon on finishing it; 'which was as much extolled by Larsileo as it was well received by those who saw it at the time.'

'With reason you can say so,' replied Darinto, 'since its truth and workmanship are worthy of just praises.'

'These are the songs to my taste,' said the loveless Lenio at this moment, 'and not those which every instant come to my ears, full of a thousand simple amorous conceits, so badly arranged and involved, that I will venture to swear that there are some, which neither the hearer, however discreet he be, can comprehend, nor the composer understand. But no less wearisome are others, which entangle themselves in giving praises to Cupid, and in exaggerating his powers, his worth, his wonders and miracles, making him lord of Heaven and earth, giving him a thousand other attributes of might, dominion and lordship; and what wearies me more than those who make them, is that, when they speak of love, they mean a someone undefined, whom they call Cupid, the very meaning of whose name declares to us what he is, namely a vain and sensual appetite, worthy of all reproof.'

The loveless Lenio spoke, and indeed he was certain to end in, speaking ill of love; but as nearly all who were there knew his disposition, they did not give much heed to his reasonings, except Erastro, who said to him:

'Do you think, Lenio, by chance, that you are always speaking to a simple Erastro, who cannot contradict your opinions, or reply to your arguments? Then I wish to warn you that it will be wise for you to be silent for the present, or at least to discuss other matters than speaking ill of love, unless indeed you would have Thyrsis's and Damon's discretion and learning restoring your sight, from the blindness in which you are, and showing you clearly what they understand, and what you should understand, of love and of its affairs.'

'What will they be able to tell me that I do not know?' said Lenio, 'or what shall I be able to reply to them but what they are ignorant of?'

'This is pride, Lenio,' replied Elicio, 'and therein you show how far you go from the path of love's truth, and that you guide yourself more by the pole-star of your opinion and fancy, than by that whereby you should be guided, namely that of truth and experience.'

'Nay rather by reason of the great experience I have of its works,' replied Lenio, 'am I as opposed to it as I show, and shall show so long as my life shall last.'

'On what do you base your reasoning?' said Thyrsis.

'On what, shepherd?' answered Lenio; 'on this, that by the effects they have I know how evil is the cause that produces them.'

'What are the effects of love that you count so evil?' replied Thyrsis.

'I will tell you them, if you listen to me with attention,' said Lenio; 'but I would not have my discourse weary the ears of those who are present, since they can spend the time in different and more pleasurable converse.'

'There will be nothing that could be more so to us,' said Darinto, 'than to hear a discussion of this topic, especially between persons who will know so well how to defend their opinion: and so for my part, if these shepherds on theirs do not hinder it, I beg you, Lenio, to continue the discourse you have begun.'

'That will I do readily,' answered Lenio, 'for I think I shall show clearly therein what a strong reason compels me to follow the opinion I do follow, and to blame any other that may be opposed to mine.'

'Begin then, oh Lenio,' said Damon, 'for you will not hold it longer than my companion Thyrsis will take to explain his.'

At this moment, whilst Lenio was preparing to utter his reproofs against love, there came to the spring the venerable Aurelio, Galatea's father, with some shepherds, and with him came also Galatea and Florisa, with the three veiled shepherdesses, Rosaura, Teolinda, and Leonarda, whom he had met at the entrance of the village, and, learning from them of the gathering of shepherds there was at the spring of slates, caused to turn back at his request, the strange shepherdesses trusting that by reason of their veils they would not be recognised by anyone. All rose to receive Aurelio and the shepherdesses, these latter seating themselves by the ladies, Aurelio and the shepherds by the other shepherds. But when the ladies saw Galatea's remarkable beauty, they were so astonished that they could not keep their eyes from looking at her. Nor was Galatea less so at their beauty, especially at that of her who seemed the older. There passed between them some words of courtesy, but everything ceased when they learnt what was agreed between the discreet Thyrsis and the loveless Lenio; whereat the venerable Aurelio was infinitely rejoiced, for he desired very much to see that assembly, and to hear that discussion, and all the more when Lenio would have someone who could answer him so well; and so, without waiting further, Lenio, seating himself on the trunk of a felled elm-tree, in a voice at first low, and then full-sounding, began to speak in this wise:

LENIO. 'Already I almost guess, worthy and discreet company, how even now in your understanding you are judging me as bold and rash, since with the little intellect and less experience which the rustic life, in which I have been nurtured for some time, can promise, I am willing to hold a contest in a matter so difficult as this with the famous Thyrsis, whose nurture in famous academies, and whose profound studies, can assure naught to my pretensions save certain failure. But confident that at times the force of natural genius, adorned with some little experience, is wont to discover new paths with which one makes easy sciences acquired during long years, I wish to make bold to-day to show in public the reasons which have moved me to be such an enemy to love, that I had deserved thereby to gain the appellation of loveless; and though nothing else would have moved me to do this, save your behest, I would not excuse myself from doing it; all the more that the glory will not be slight which I have to gain hereby, though I should lose in the enterprise, since after all fame will say that I had the spirit to compete with the renowned Thyrsis. And so on this understanding, without wishing to be favoured except by the reason that I have on my side, it alone do I invoke and pray to give such strength to my words and arguments that there may appear in both of them the reason I have for being such an enemy to love as I proclaim. Love, then, as I have heard my elders say, is a desire for beauty; and this definition, amongst many others, those give it that have advanced farthest in this question. Then, if it be granted me, that love is desire for beauty, it must necessarily be granted me that such as is the beauty which is loved, will be the love with which it is loved. And because beauty is of two kinds, corporeal and incorporeal, the love which loves corporeal beauty for its ultimate goal, such a love as this cannot be good, and this is the love whose enemy I am; but as corporeal beauty is divided likewise into two parts, namely into living bodies and dead bodies, there can also be a love of corporeal beauty which may be good. The one part of corporeal beauty is shown in living bodies of men and women, and this consists in all the parts of the body being good in themselves, and all together making one perfect whole, and forming a body proportioned in limbs and in pleasantness of hue. The other beauty of the corporeal part which is not alive, consists in pictures, statues and buildings; which beauty can be loved without the love with which it is loved being blameworthy. Incorporeal beauty is divided also into two parts, the virtues and the sciences of the soul; and the love which cleaves to virtue must necessarily be good, and likewise that which cleaves to virtuous sciences and agreeable studies. Then, as these two kinds of beauty are the cause which begets love in our breasts, it follows that whether love be good or bad, depends upon loving the one or the other: but, as incorporeal beauty is viewed with the pure and clear eyes of the understanding, and corporeal beauty is regarded with the corporeal eyes, clouded and blind, in comparison with the incorporeal, and as the eyes of the body are quicker to regard the present corporeal beauty which pleases, than those of the understanding to view the absent incorporeal beauty which glorifies, it follows that mortals more usually love the fading and mortal beauty which destroys them than the rare and divine beauty which makes them better. Then from this love, or from desiring corporeal beauty, have arisen, arise, and will arise in the world desolation of cities, ruin of states, destruction of empires, and deaths of friends; and when this, as is generally the case, does not happen, what greater woes, what more grievous torments, what fire, what jealousy, what pains, what deaths, can the human understanding imagine which can be compared to those the wretched lover suffers? And the cause of this is that, as the lover's whole happiness depends upon enjoying the beauty he desires, and this beauty cannot be possessed and enjoyed fully, that inability to reach the goal which is desired, begets in him sighs, tears, complaints, and dejection. It is manifest and clear then that it is true that the beauty of which I speak, cannot be enjoyed perfectly and fully, because it is not in the power of man to enjoy completely a thing which is outside of him and not wholly his; because external things, it is well known, are always under the control of that which we call fortune or chance, and not in the power of our free-will, and so it results that where there is love there is sorrow; and he who would deny this, would likewise deny that the sun is bright and that fire burns. But that we may come the more easily to the knowledge of the bitterness that love contains, the truth I follow will be clearly seen by running over the passions of the mind. The passions of the mind, as you know best, discreet gentlemen and shepherds, are four universal ones, and no more. Immoderate desire, much joy, great fear for future miseries, great sorrow for present calamities; these passions, being, as it were, contrary winds which disturb the tranquillity of the soul, are called by a more appropriate term disturbances; and of these disturbances the first is proper to love, since love is nothing else save desire; and so desire is the beginning and origin of all our passions, from which they issue as every stream from its source. Hence it comes that every time desire for something is kindled in our hearts, straightway it moves us to follow it and seek it, and in seeking it and following it, it leads us to a thousand disordered ends. This desire it is which incites the brother to seek his beloved sister's abominable embraces, the stepmother her step-son's, and what is worst, the very father his own daughter's; this desire it is that bears our thoughts to grievous perils. Nor does it avail that we oppose it with the reason, for, though we clearly recognise our hurt, we cannot, on that account, withdraw from it; and love does not content itself with keeping us intent on one wish, but rather, as from the desire of things all the passions arise, as has already been said, so from the first desire that arises in us, a thousand others are derived; and these are in lovers no less various than infinite, and though they well-nigh always look to one goal only, yet, as the objects are various, and various the fortune of those in love with each, without any doubt desire takes various forms. There are some who, to reach the attainment of what they desire, put all their strength on one course, in which, alas, what great hardships are encountered, how often they fall, what sharp thorns torture their feet, and how often strength and breath are lost before they attain what they seek! There are some others who are possessors of the thing beloved, and neither desire nor think of aught else save to remain in that state, and, having their thoughts busied about this alone, and on this alone spending all their toil and time, are wretched amidst happiness, poor amidst wealth, and unfortunate amidst good fortune. Others who are no longer in possession of their treasure, seek to return to it, employing for the purpose a thousand prayers, a thousand promises, a thousand conditions, countless tears, and at last, busying themselves with these woes, they bring themselves to the pass of losing their life. But these torments are not seen at the entry of the first desires, for then deceitful love shows us a path whereby we may enter, in appearance broad and spacious, which afterwards gradually closes in in such a manner that no way offers itself to return or go forward; and so the wretched lovers, deceived and betrayed by a sweet and false smile, by a mere turn of the eye, by two stammered words which beget in their breasts a false and feeble hope, dash straightway to go after it, goaded by desire, and afterwards, in a short space and in a few days, finding the path of their cure closed, and the way of their pleasure obstructed, turn to bedew their faces with tears, to disturb the air with sighs, to weary the ears with woeful complaints; and the worst is, that if perchance with their tears, their sighs, and their complaints they cannot come to the goal of their desire, straightway they change their manner and seek to attain by bad means what they cannot by good. Hence arise hatreds, angers, deaths as well of friends as of enemies. For this cause it has been seen and is seen at every moment that tender and delicate women set themselves to do things so strange and rash that even to imagine them inspires terror. Therefore the holy marriage-bed is seen bathed in crimson blood, now of the sad unheeding wife, now of the incautious and careless husband. To come to the goal of this desire brother is traitor to brother, father to son, and friend to friend. It originates feuds, tramples on respect, transgresses laws, forgets duties, and seduces kinswomen. But in order that it may be clearly seen how great the misery of lovers is, it is already known that no appetite has such strength in us, nor carries us with such force to the object in view as that which is urged on by the spurs of love. Hence it comes that no happiness or contentment passes so much beyond the due bounds as that of the lover when he comes to attain any one of the things he desires; and this is evident, for what person of judgment will there be, save the lover, who will reckon his highest joy a touch of his mistress's hand, a little ring of hers, a short loving glance, and other similar things of as small account as a dispassionate understanding holds them? And not by reason of these abundant pleasures which lovers in their judgment gain, must it be said that they are happy and fortunate; for there is no contentment of theirs that does not come accompanied by innumerable displeasures and disgusts, wherewith love dilutes them and disturbs them, and never did amorous glory reach the pitch reached and attained by pain. So evil is the happiness of lovers that it draws them out of themselves, making them careless and foolish; for, as they set their whole intent and strength to maintain themselves in that pleasant state they fancy themselves to be in, they neglect everything else, whereby no small harm overtakes them, as well of property, as of honour and life. Then, in exchange for what I have said, they even make themselves slaves of a thousand pangs, and enemies of themselves. What then, when it happens that, in the midst of the course of their pleasures, the cold steel of the heavy lance of jealousy touches them? Then the sky is darkened for them, the air is disturbed, and all the elements turn against them. Then they have nothing from which to hope for contentment, since the attainment of the end they desire cannot give it them. Then appear ceaseless dread, unfailing despair, sharp suspicions, varying thoughts, care without gain, false laughter and true sorrow, with a thousand other strange and terrible sensations which consume them and affright them. All the actions of the beloved object distress them, if she looks, if she laughs, if she turns away or comes back, if she is silent, if she speaks; and in a word all the graces that moved him to love well, are the very ones which torture the jealous lover. And who does not know that if fortune does not favour with full hands the beginnings of love and with speedy diligence lead them to a sweet end, how costly to the lover are any other means the luckless one employs to attain his purpose? What tears he sheds, what sighs he scatters, how many letters he writes, how many nights he does not sleep, how many and what contrary thoughts assail him, how many suspicions distress him and fears surprise him? Is there by chance a Tantalus who feels more distress, set between the waters and the apple-tree, than that which the wretched lover feels placed between fear and hope? The services of the lover out of favour are the pitchers of Danaus's daughters, drained so fruitlessly that they never come to attain the least part of their purpose. Is there eagle that so destroys the bowels of Tityus as jealousy destroys and gnaws those of the jealous lover? Is there rock that weighs down so much the shoulders of Sisyphus as love unceasingly weighs down the thoughts of those in love? Is there wheel of Ixion that more quickly turns and torments than the quick varying fancies of irresolute lovers? Is there a Minos or Rhadamanthus who so punishes and oppresses the luckless condemned souls as love punishes and oppresses the loving breast which is subject to his unendurable power? There is not a cruel MegÆra, nor raging Tisiphone, nor avenging Alecto, who so illtreat the soul in which they enclose themselves, as this fury, this desire, illtreats those hapless ones who recognise it as lord, and bow before it as vassals, who, to give some excuse for the follies they commit, say—or at least the ancient heathens said—that that instinct which incites and moves the lover to love another's life more than his own, was a god, to whom they gave the name of Cupid, and so, being constrained by his godhead, they could not fail to follow and go after what he willed. They were moved to say this, and to give the name of god to this desire by seeing the supernatural effects it produces in lovers. Without doubt it seems a supernatural thing for a lover at the same moment to be timorous and confident, to burn away from his beloved and grow cold when nearer her, to be dumb when speaking much, and speaking much when dumb. It is likewise a strange thing to follow one who shuns me, to praise one who reproaches me, to utter words to one who does not listen to me, to serve an ungrateful one, and to hope in one who never promises nor can give aught that is good. Oh bitter sweetness, oh poisonous medicine of sick lovers, oh sad joy, oh flower of love, that dost indicate no fruit, save that of tardy repentance! These are the effects of this fancied god, these are his deeds and wondrous works; and indeed it can also be seen in the picture by which they represented this vain god of theirs, how vainly they acted; they painted him as a boy, naked, winged, his eyes bandaged, with bow and arrows in his hands, to give us to understand, amongst other things, that, when a man is in love, he assumes again the character of a simple and capricious boy, who is blind in his aims, light in his thoughts, cruel in his deeds, naked and poor in the riches of the understanding. They said likewise that amongst his arrows he had two, the one of lead and the other of gold, with which he produced different effects; for the leaden one begot hatred in the breasts it touched, and the golden one increase of love in those it wounded, merely to tell us that it is rich gold that causes love, and poor lead abhorrence. And for this reason poets do not sing in vain of Atalanta vanquished by three lovely golden apples; and of fair Danae, made pregnant by the golden rain; and of pious Æneas descending to hell with the golden branch in his hand; in a word, gold and gifts are one of the strongest arrows which love has; and the one with which he subdues most hearts; quite the contrary to the one of lead, a metal low and despised, as poverty is, which rather begets hatred and abhorrence where it comes, than any kind of benevolence. But if the reasons spoken by me so far do not suffice to persuade you of the reason I have for being on bad terms with this treacherous love, which I am discussing to-day, observe its effects in some true examples from the past, and you will see, as I see, that he who does not attain to the truth I follow does not see nor has he eyes of understanding. Let us see then—what but this love is it which made righteous Lot break his chaste purpose and violate his own daughters? This it is without doubt that made the chosen David be an adulterer and a murderer; that forced the lustful Ammon to seek the infamous embraces of Tamar, his beloved sister; that placed the head of mighty Samson in the traitorous lap of Delilah, whereby he lost his strength, his people lost their protection, and at last he and many others their lives. This it was that moved Herod's tongue to promise to the dancing girl the head of the Fore-runner of Life; this makes one doubt of the salvation of the wisest and richest king of kings, and even of all mankind. This brought down the strong arms of famous Hercules, accustomed to wield the weighty club, to turn a tiny spindle and to busy themselves in feminine tasks. This made the raging and loving Medea scatter through the air the tender limbs of her little brother; this cut out the tongue of Procne, Arachne and Hippolytus, made Pasiphae infamous, destroyed Troy, and slew Ægisthus. This caused the works of new Carthage once begun to be stayed, and her first queen to pierce her chaste breast with a sharp sword. This placed in the hands of the fair and famous Sophonisba, the vial of deadly poison which ended her life. This robbed valiant Turnus of life, Tarquin of kingdom, Mark Antony of power, and his mistress of life and honour. This finally handed our Spain over to the barbarous fury of the children of Hagar, called to avenge the disordered love of the wretched Roderick. But, because I think that night will cover us with its shade before I finish bringing to your memory the examples that offer themselves to mine, of the exploits that love has performed, and is performing every day in the world, I do not wish to go on with them, nor yet with the discourse I have begun, in order to give an opportunity for the famous Thyrsis to reply to me, begging you first, gentlemen, not to be wearied by hearing a song which I composed some days ago in reproach of this my foe. If I remember rightly, it runs in this way:

No fear have I before the frost and fire,
The bow and arrows of the tyrant Love,
And so I needs must sing in his dispraise;
For who shall fear a blind boy whose desire
Varies, whose judgment doth inconstant rove,
Although he threaten wounds and sad decays?
My pleasure doth increase, his worth decays,
When I employ my tongue
To utter the true song
Which in reproach of Love himself I form,
So rich in truth, in manner, and in form,
That unto all Love's malice it reveals,
And clearly doth inform
The world of the sure hurt that Love conceals.

Love is a fire that burns the soul within,
A frost that freezes; dart that opes the breast,
Which heedeth not its cunning manifold;
A troubled sea where calm hath ne'er been seen;
Wrath's minister; enemy manifest,
In guise of friend; father of dismay cold;
Giver of scanty good and ill untold;
Caressing; full of lies;
Fierce in his tyrannies;
A traitorous Circe that transforms us all
To divers monstrous shapes fantastical
Wherefrom no power of man can us restore,
Though quickly at our call
Comes reason's light, to what we were before,

A yoke that doth the proudest neck abase;
A mark to which desires of slothful ease,
Born without reason, go as to their goal;
A treacherous net, which men of highest place
Amidst their foul and unclean sins doth seize
And doth within its subtle mesh enthrall;
A pleasing ill that tempts the senses all;
Poison in guise of pill,
Gilded, but poison still;
A bolt that burns and cleaves where it descendeth;
An angry arm that traitorously offendeth;
Headsman that dooms the thought which captive lies,
Or which itself defendeth
From the sweet charm of his false fantasies;

A hurt that doth in the beginning please,
When on an object which doth seem as fair
As the fair heavens above, the sight doth feast—
And yet the more it looks with yearning gaze,
The more the heart doth suffer everywhere,
The heart that is with anguish sore distressed—
Dumb speaker; chatterer with dumbness oppressed;
A wise man babbling folly;
Ruin that slayeth wholly;
The life which joyous harmony doth fill;
Shadow of good that is transformed to ill;
A flight that raiseth us to Heaven on high,
Only that grief may still
Live after we have fallen, and pleasure die;

A thief unseen that doth destroy us quite,
And robs us of our wealth with ruthless hand,
Carrying our souls away at every hour;
A speed that overtakes the quickest flight;
A riddle none there is to understand;
A life that always is in peril sore;
A chosen, and, withal, a chance-born war;
A truce that is but brief;
Beloved, luckless grief;
Promise that never doth to fruitage come;
Illness that makes within the soul its home;
Coward that upon evil rusheth bold;
Debtor that doth the sum
He owes, which is our due, ever withhold;

A labyrinth wherein is nestling found
A fierce wild beast that doth itself sustain
On the surrendered hearts of all mankind;
A bond wherewith the lives of all are bound;
A lord that from his steward seeks to gain
Account of deed and word, and of his mind;
Greed, unto countless varied aims inclined;
A worm that builds a house,
Wretched or beauteous,
Where for a little while it dwells and dies;
A sigh that never knows for what it sighs;
A cloud that darkens all our faculties;
A knife that wounds us—this
Is Love, him follow, if ye think it wise.'