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 septima.

CORISCA, LINCO.

Cor.

SO it seems, Linco, that coy Silvio When least expected, did a Lover grow. But what became of her?

Lin.

We carry'd her To Silvio's dwelling, where with many a tear (Whether of joy or grief, I cannot tell) His Mother welcom'd her. It pleas'd her well To see her Son now marryed, and a Lover; But for the Nymph great grief she did discover. Poor Mother-in-law! ill sped, though doubly sped: One Daughter-in-law being hurt, the other dead.

Cor.

Is Amarillis dead?

Lin.

'Tis rumour'd so: That's now the cause I to the temple go, To comfort old Montano with this newes, One Daughter-in-law he gains, if one he lose.

Cor.

Is not Dorinda dead then?

Lin.

Dead? would thou Wert half so live and jocund as Shee's now!

Cor.

Was't not a mortal wound?

Li.

Had she been slain, With Silvio's pity she had liv'd again.

Cor.

What Art so soon could cure her?

Lin.

I will tell Thee all the cure. Listen t' a miracle. With trembling hearts, and hands prepar'd to aid, Women and men stood round the wounded Maid; But she would suffer none to touch her save Her Silvio; for the same hand which gave, She said, should cure the wound. So all withdrew Except my self, he, and his Mother: two T' advise, the third to act. Then Silvio Removing first from her blood-dapled snow Gently the cleaving garments, strove to pluck The arrow out, which in her deep wound stuck. But the false wood (forth coming) gave the slip To th' iron head, and left it in her Hip. Here, here the lamentable cryes began: It was not possible by hand of man, Or iron instrument, or ought beside To get it out. Perchance t' ave open'd wide The wound b' a greater wound, and so have made One iron dive after another, had

Effected the great cure. But Silvio's hand, Too pitifull, too much with Love unmann'd The Surgeon was, so cruelly to heal. Love searches not with instruments of steel The wounds he makes. As for the love-sick Maid, In Silvio's hands her wounds grew sweet, she said. And Silvio said (not yet discouraged) Thou shalt out too, thou shalt, curst Arrow-head, And with lesse pain then is believ'd: the same Who thrust thee in, can pull thee out again. By using hunting I have learn'd to cure This mischief which my hunting did procure. A plant there is much us'd by the wild Goat When there's a shaft into her body shot: She shew'd it us, and Nature shew'd it her: (Remembred happily!) nor is it far From hence. Streight went he to the neighb'ring hill, And there a flasket with this Plant did fill; Then came again to us: thence squeesing out The juice, and mingling it with Centry root And Plantain leafe, thereof a pultise made. O wonderfull! as soon as that was laid Upon the sore, the blood was stanched streight, And the pain ceased; and soon after that, The iron coming without pain away, Did the first summons of the hand obey: The Maid was now as vigorous and sound, As if she never had receiv'd the wound.

Nor mortall was't; for th' arrow having flown (As hapt) betwixt the muscles and the bone, Pierc'd but the fleshy part.

Cor.

Thou hast displaid Much vertue in a plant, more in a Maid.

Lin.

What afterwards between 'em happened May better be imagined then sed: This I am sure, Dorinda's well again, And now can stir her body without pain: Though thou believ'st, Corisca, I suppose H' ath giv'n her since more wounds then that: but those, As they are made b' a diffrent weapon, so Themselves are of a diffrent nature too. And such a trick this cruell Archer has, Of hitting all he shoots at since he was A Huntsman; that to shew hee's still the same, Now hee's a Lover too, he hits the Game.

Cor.

Old Linco still!

Lin.

Faith, my Corisca, still If not in strength, I'm Linco in my will. Nor yet, though my leafe's witherd, am I dead: But all my sap into the root is fled.

Cor.

My Rivall thus dispatch'd, I'le now go see If I can get my deer Mirtillo free.