Il pastor fido The faithfull shepherd : a pastorall / written in Italian by Baptista Guarini, a Knight of Italie ; and now newly translated out of the originall.

Scena octava.

SILVIO, ECCHO within.

O Goddesse of the slothfull, blind, and vain, Who with foul hearts, Rites foolish and profane, Altars and Temples hallow to thy name!

Temples? or Sanctuaries vile said I? To protect Lewdnesse and impietie, Under the robe of thy Divinity?

And thou base Goddesse: that thy wickednesse, When others do as bad, may seem the lesse, Giv'st them the reins to all lasciviousnesse.

Rotter of soul and body, enemie Of reason, plotter of sweet thee very, The little and great World's calamitie.

Reputed worthily the Ocean's daughter: That treacherous monster, which with even water First soothes, but ruffles into storms soon after.

Such windes of sighs, such Cataracts of tears, Such breaking waves of hopes, such gulfs of fears, Thou mak'st in men, such rocks of cold despairs.

Tydes of desire so head-strong, as would move The world to change thy name, when thou shalt prove Mother of Rage and Tempests, not of Love.

Behold what sorrow now and discontent On a poor pair of Lovers thou hast sent! Go thou, that vaunt'st thy self Omnipotent,

Go faithlesse Goddesse, save that Nymph whom thou Hast poyson'd with thy sweets (if thou knowst how) From her swift deaths pursuing footsteps now.

O what a happy day was that for me, When my chaste soul I did devote to thee Cynthia, my great and onely Deitie!

True Goddesse! unto whose particular shrine The fairest souls in all the Earth incline, As thou in Heav'n do'st all the Starrs out-shine.

How much more laudable and free from pain The sports are which thy servants entertain, Then those of faithlesse Ericina's train!

Wilde Boars are killed by thy Worshippers: By wilde Boars miserably kild are hers. O Bow, my strength and joy! My conquerers

My Arrows! Let that bug-bear Love come trie And match with you his soft Artillerie.

They whom you wound do in good earnest die.

But too much honour hence to thee would come, Vile and unwarlike Boy, to chastise whom (I speak't aloud) a rod's enough. Enough. What art thou that reply'st? Eccho? or Love? That so doth imitate the same? The same. Most wish'd! but tell me true; Art thou hee? Hee. The son of her that for Adonis once So miserably pin'd away? Away. Well: of that Goddesse who was found in bed With Mars, when the stars shot to see her shame, And the chast Moon blush'd at her folly? O ly! What madnesse 'tis to whistle to the winde! Come (if thou darest) to the wide air, I dare. And I defie thee. But art thou her son Legitimate, or else a by-blow? I glow. O! the Smith's son that's call'd a God. A God. Of what? the follies of the world? The world. The Bawd thou art. Art thou that terrible Boy That tak'st such sharp revenge upon those wights Who thy absurd commands digest not? Iest not. What punishments dost thou inflict on those Who in rebellion persevere? Severe. And how shall I be punish'd, whose hard heart Hath alwayes been at odds with Love? With Love. When (Sot), if my chaste brest be to those flames More opposite then night to day? To day.

So quickly shall I be in that streight? Streight. What's she can bring me to adoring? Dorin. Dorinda, is it not, my little childe, Thou wouldst say in thy lithping gibberish? Ish. Shee whom I hate more then the Lamb the Wolf? And who to this shall force my will? I will. And how? and with what Arms? and with what bow? Shall it be happily with thine? With thine. Thou mean'st perchance, when by thy wantonnesse It is unbent, and the nerve broken? Broken. Shall my own bow, after 'tis broken too, Make war on me? and who shall break't? thou? Thou. 'Tis plain now thou art drunk: go sleep. But say, Where shall these miracles be wrought? here? Here. O fool! and I am going now from hence. See if thou hast not prov'd thy self to day A prophet with the wine inspir'd. Inspir'd. But stay, I see (unlesse I much mistake) A greyish thing at couch in yonder Brake: 'Tis like a Wolf, and certainly 'tis one. O what a huge one 'tis! how over-grown! O day of prey to me! What favours are These, courteous goddesse? in one day a pair Of such wilde beasts to triumph ore? But why Do I delay this work, my Deity? The swiftest and the keenest shaft that is In all my Quiver (let me see,— 'tis this) I do select: to thee I recommend it

(O Archeresse eternall) do thou send it By Fortunes hand, and by thy pow'r divine Guide it into the beast. His skin is thine. And in thy name I shoot. O lucky hit! Just where the eye and hand designed it. Would now I had my javelin here, to make An end of him at once, before he take The wood for shelter: but the place shall yeeld Me weapons. Not a stone in all the field? But why do I seek weapons, having these? This second arrow layes him at his ease. Alas! what do I see? what hast thou done, Unhappy Silvio? what hast thou run Thy self into? Thou hast a shepherd slain In a wolfe's skin. O action to remain For ever overwhelm'd with grief! to lie Under salt water everlastingly! The wretch too I should know, and he that so Doth lead and prop him up is Linco. O Vile arrow! viler vow! but vilest Thou That didst direct that arrow, hear that vow! I guilty of anothers blood? I kill Another? I that was so free to spill My blood for others, and my life to give? Throw down thy weapons, and inglorious live, Shooter of men, hunter of men. But lo The wretched Swain! then thee lesse wretched though.