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 nona.

LINCO, SILVIO, DORINDA.

Lin.

LEan, daughter, on my arm with all thy weight, (Wretched Dorinda) do.

Sil.

Dorinda's that? I'm a dead man.

Dor.

O Linco, Linco! O My second Father!

Sil.

'Tis Dorinda: woe, Woe on thee Silvio!

Dor.

Linco, thou wert sure Ordein'd by Fate to be a stay to poor Dorinda. Thou receivedst my first cry When I was born: Thou wilt, now I'm to dye, My latest groan: and these thy arms which were My cradle then, shall now become my biere.

Lin.

Ah daughter! (or more deer then if thou wert My daughter) speak now to thee for my heart I can't, grief melts each word into a tear.

Dor.

Not so fast Linco, if thou lov'st me: deer Linco, nor go, nor weep so fast; one rakes My wound too bad, t'other a new wound makes.

Sil.

(Poor Nymph! how ill have I repaid thy love!)

Lin.

Be of good comfort daughter, this will prove No mortall wound.

Dor.

It may be so; but I That am a Mortall, of this wound shall die. Would I knew yet who hurt me!

Lin.

Get thee sound, And let that passe: "Revenge ne're cur'd a wound.

Sil.

(Why dost thou stay? what mak'st thou in this place? Woulst thou be seen by her? Hast thou the face? Hast thou the heart t'indure it? Silvio, flee From the sharp dart of her revenging eye: Fly from her tongues just sword. I cannot go From hence: and what it is I do not know, But something holds me, and would make me run To her whom I of all the world did shun.)

Dor.

Must I then die and not my Murtherer know?

Lin.

'Twas Silvio.

Dor.

How dost know 'twas Silvio?

Lin.

I know his shaft.

Dor.

Then welcom death, if I Shall owe thee to so sweet an enemy!

Lin.

Look where he stands! we need demand no further, His posture and his face confesse the murther Alone. Now Heav'n be praised Silvio, Thy all-destroying Arrowes and thy Bow Th' hast pli'd so well about these woods, that now Th' art gone out thy Arts-master. Tell me, thou That dost like Silvio, not like Linco, who Made this brave shoot, Linco or Silvio? This 'tis for boyes to be so overwise: Would thou hadst taken this old fools advice! Answer, thou wretch: What lingring miserie, What horrour shalt thou live in if she die? I know thou't say, thou err'dst, and thought'st to strike: A Wolfe: as if'twere nothing (school-boy like) To shoot at all adventures, and not see, Nor care, whether a man or beast it be.

What Goat-herd, or what plough-man doth not go Clad in such skins? O Silvio, Silvio! "Soon ripe, soon rotten. If thou think (fond childe) This chance by chance befell thee, th' art beguild. " These monstrous things without Divine decree " Hap not to men. Dost thou not plainly see How this thy unsupportable disdain Of Love, the world, and all that is humane Displeases Heav'n? " High Gods cannot abide " A Rivall upon earth: and hate such pride, " Although in vertue. Now th'art mute, that wert Before this hap unsufferably pert.

Dor.

Silvio, give Linco leave to talk: for hee Knows not what pow'r Love gave thee over me Of life and death. If thou hadst strook my heart, Th' hadst strook what's thine (mark proper for thy dart.) Those hands to wound mee thy fair eyes have taught. See Silvio her thou hat'st so! see her brought To that extremity where thou wouldst see her! Thou sought'st to wound her, see her wounded here! To prey upon here, loe she is thy prey! Thou sought'st her death, and loe she's dying! Say, Wouldst thou ought else of her? What further joy Can poor Dorinda yeeld thee? Cruell Boy! And void of Bowels! thou wouldst ne're believe That wound which from thy eyes I did receive: This which thy hands have giv'n canst thou deny? Those crystall showrs which issued from my eye,

Thou couldst not be perswaded were my blood: What dost thou think now of this crimson flood Which my side weeps? But (if orewhelm'd with scorn That bravery be not wherewith thou wert born) Deny me not (though cruell soul, yet brave) Deny me not ('tis all the boon I crave) When I shall sigh into thee my last breath, One sigh of thine. O happy, happy death! If thou vouchsafe to sweeten it with these Kind words and pious; Soul depart in peace.

Sil.

Dorinda, my Dorinda, shall I say (Alas!) when I must lose thee the same day Th'art mine? now mine, when death to thee I give, That wert not mine when I could make thee live? Yes mine I'le call thee: and thou mine shalt be In spight of my opposing destinie. For if thy death our meeting souls disjoyn, My death shall reunite us. All that's mine Haste to revenge her: I have murder'd thee With these curs'd arrows; with them murder me. I have been cruell unto thee; and I Desire from thee nothing but crueltie. I scorn'd thee in my pride; look! with my knee (Low louting to the earth) I worship thee, And pardon of thee, but not life demand. Take Shafts and Bow: But do not strike my hand Or eye (bad ministers, 'tis true, yet still) But ministers of an unguilty will:

Strike me this brest, this monster hence remove, Sworn enemy of Pity, and of Love. Strike me this heart, to thee so cruell. Loe, My bared brest!

Dor.

I strike it, Silvio? I strike that brest? sure if thou didst not mock, Thou wouldst not shew't mee naked. O white rock! Already by the windes and briny main Of my rough sighs and tears oft strook in vain! But dost thou breath? nor art to pity barr'd? Art thou a tender brest, or marble hard? I would not idolize fair Alablaster, (Led by the humane likenesse) as thy Master And mine, when on the outside he did look, A harmlesse woman for a beast mistook. I strike thee? strike thee Love. Nor can I wish For my revenge a greater plague then this. Yet must I blesse the day that I took fire, My tears and martyrdome. All I desire Is that thou praise my faith, my zeale, but no Revenging me. But courteous Silvio, (That to thy servant kneel'st) why this to me? Or if Dorinda must thy Mistresse be, Obey her then; the first command I give, Is that thou rise; the second, that thou live. Heav'ns Will be done with me: I shall survive In thee, and cannot dye, whilest thou'rt alive. But if thou thinkst unjust I should be found Without all satisfaction for my wound,

Be that, which did it, punish'd. 'Twas that Bow: Let that be broke; I'm well revenged so.

Lin.

(A very heavie doom).

Sil.

Come then thou mad, Thou bloody actor of a deed so sad: That thou maist ne're break thred of life again, Thus do I break thee and thy thred in twain, And send thee a uselesse trunk back to the wood. Nor you (ill sanguin'd with an innocents blood!) Which my deer Mistresse side so rudely rent, (Brothers in ill) shall scape your punishment. Not shafts, nor flights, but sticks, since yee shall want Those wings and heads which garnisht you: Avant Plum'd and disarmed Arms. How well, O Love, Didst thou foretell me this from yonder grove In a prophetick Eccho! O thou high Conqu'rour of Gods and men, once enemy, Now lord of all my thoughts! if 'tis thy glory To tame a heart that's proud and refractory, Divert Death's impious shaft, which with one blow Slaying Dorinda, will slay Silvio (Now thine): so cruell death, if it remove Her hence, will triumph or'e triumphant Love.

Lin.

Now both are wounded: but the one in vain, Unlesse the other's wound be heal'd again. About it then.

Dor.

Ah Linco! do not (pray) Carry me home disguis'd in this array.

Sil.

Why should Dorinda go to any house But Silvio's? surely she shall be my Spouse

'Ere it be night, either alive, or dead. And Silvio in life or death will wed Dorinda.

Lin.

Now she may become thy Wife, Since Amarillis is to marriage, life, And vertue lost. Blest pair! Ye Gods (that doe Wonders) with one cure now give life to two.

Dor.

O Silvio! I shall faint, my wounded thigh Feebly supporting me.

Sil.

Good remedy For that! take heart: th'art mine and Linco's care, And I and Linco thy two crutches are. Linco, thy hand.

Lin.

There 'tis.

Sil.

Hold fast: a chair Let's make for her of our two arms. Rest here Dorinda, suffring thy right hand t' imbrace The neck of Linco, thy left mine: Now place Thy body tenderly, that the hurt part May not be strain'd.

Dor.

O cruell pricking dart!

Sil.

Sit at more ease, my Love.

Dor.

It is well now.

Sil.

Deer Linco do not stagger.

Lin.

Nor do thou Swag with thine arme, but steddy go and wary It will concern thee. Ah! we do not carry A Boars head now in triumph.

Sil.

Say, my Deer, How is it now?

Dor.

In pain; but leaning here (My Heart) to be in pain, is pleas'd to be; To languish, health; to die, eternity.

CHORUS.

FAir golden Age! when milk was th' onely food, And cradle of the infant-world the wood (Rock'd by the windes); and th' untoucht flocks did bear Their deer young for themselves! None yet did fear The sword or poyson: no black thoughts begun T' eclipse the light of the eternall Sun: Nor wandring Pines unto a forreign shore Or War, or Riches, (a worse mischief) bore. That pompous sound, Idoll of vanity, Made up of Title, Pride, and Flattery, Which they call Honour whom Ambition blindes, Was not as yet the Tyrant of our mindes. But to buy reall goods with honest toil Amongst the woods and flocks, to use no guile, Was honour to those sober souls that knew No happinesse but what from vertue grew. Then sports and carols amongst Brooks and Plains Kindled a lawfull flame in Nymphs and Swains. Their hearts and Tongues concurr'd, the kisse and joy Which were most sweet, and yet which least did cloy Hymen bestow'd on them. To one alone The lively Roses of delight were blown; The theevish Lover found them shut on triall, And fenc'd with prickles of a sharp denyall.

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Were it in Cave or Wood, or purling Spring, Husband and Lover signifi'd one thing. Base present age, which dost with thy impure Delights the beauty of the soul obscure: Teaching to nurse a Dropsie in the veins: Bridling the look, but giv'st desire the reins. Thus, like a net that spread and cover'd lies With leaves and tempting flowrs, thou dost disguise With coy and holy arts a wanton heart; " Mak'st life a Stage-play, vertue but a part: " Nor thinkst it any fault Love's sweets to steal, " So from the world thou canst the theft conceal. But thou that art the King of Kings, create In us true honour: Vertue's all the state Great souls should keep. Vnto these cels return Which were thy Court, but now thy absence mourn: From their dead sleep with thy sharp goad awake Them who, to follow their base wils, forsake Thee, and the glory of the ancient world. " Let's hope: our ills have truce till we are hurld " From that: Let's hope; the sun that's set may rise, " And with new light salute our longing eyes.