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 tertia.

AMARILLIS, CORISCA, MIRTILLO.

Am.

I' Faith, Aglaura, art thou caught at last? Thou'dst fain be gone, but I will hold thee fast.

Cor.

Surely, unlesse at unawares by main Strength I had thrust him on her, I in vain Had tyr'd my self to make him thither go.

Am.

Thou wilt not speak now: Art thou she or no?

Cor.

I lay his Dart here by him, and unto My bush return, t'observe what will ensue.

Am.

Thou art Corisca, now it is most cleer; I know thee by thy tallnesse and short hair. 'Twas thee I wish'd to catch; that I might use thee Just as I list, and thus, and thus abuse thee; And thus, and thus. Not yet? But since 'twas thou That boundst me, do thou too unbinde me now:

Quickly (my heart) and thou shalt have of me The sweetest kisse that ere was given thee. What dost thou stick at? thy hand trembles: what, Art thou so weary? If thy nails will not, Let thy teeth do't: come fumbler, let mee see; I can my self untangle without thee. Fye, how with knots on knots it is perplext? The best on't is, thou must be blinded next. So, now 'tis loos'd: Hah! whom have we here? Traitor avaunt. I am unspirited.

Mir.

Dear Soul, do not strive to goe away.

Am.

Unhand (Forcer of Nymphs) unhand me, I command. Ay me! Aglaura and Eliza tarry, Betrayers of my innocence, where are ye?— Unhand me villain.

Mir.

I obey.

Am.

This plot Corisca laid: Now tell her what th'ast got.

Mir.

O whither fly'st thou Cruell? ere thou go Banquet thy eyes yet with my death: for lo, I pierce my bosome with this dart.

Am.

Ay me! What wilt thou do?

Mir.

That which it troubles thee Perchance (dire Nymph) that any should be sed T'have done, but thou.

Am.

(Ay me! I'm almost dead)

Mirt.

And if this action to thy hand be due, Behold the weapon and the brest!

Am.

'Tis true, Thou hast deserv'd it of me. What could move Thy heart to such a high presumption?

Mir.

Love.

Am.

"Love never causes rudeness.

Mir.

Then conclude, "I was in love, because I was not rude:

For if within thy arms thou caughtst me first, I cannot well with rudenesse be asperst, Since with so fair an opportunity To be audacious, and to use with thee The Lawes of Love, I had such power yet over My self, I ev'n forgot I was a Lover.

Am.

Upbraid me not with what I blind did doe.

Mir.

I being in Love was blinder of the two.

Am.

" Pray'r and sweet language discreet Lovers use " To winne their Loves; not theft and cheats, t'abuse.

Mir.

As a wild beast enrag'd with want of food Rushes on travellers out of the wood: So I, that onely live on thy fair eyes, Since that lov'd food thy crueltie denyes, Or else my Fate, if like a ravenous Lover Rushing to day upon thee from this Cover, Where I had long been famish't, I did prove One stratagem to save my life (which Love Prompted me to) then blame not, cruell Maid, Me but thy self; for if (as thou hast said) Pray'r and sweet language onely should be us'd By discret Lovers, which thou hast refus'd To hear from me; thou by thy crueltie, Thou by thy flight mad'st me I could not be A discreet Lover.

Am.

If th'adst gi'n her over That fled from thee, th'adst been a discreet Lover. But know, thou persecutest me in vain; What wouldst thou have of me?

Mir.

I'd have thee daign

Once'ere I die to hear me.

Am.

See! as soon As thou hast askt, thou hast receiv'd the boon. Now then be gone.

Mir.

Ah Nymph! I've scarcely yet Powr'd one small drop out to thee of the great Sea of my tears. If not for Pitie's sake, Yet for the Pleasure thou therein wilt take, List' to a dying man's last accents.

Am.

Well, To shun more trouble, and thy hopes to quell, To hear thee I'm content. But this before; Say little, quickly, part, and come no more.

Mir.

Thou dost command me, cruell'st Nymph, to bind In volume too too small that unconfin'd Desire, which scarcely humane thought (though it Be as the soul that holds it, infinit) Hath line to fathom. That I do love thee more then I do love My life (if thou doubt'st, Cruel) ask this Grove, And that will tell thee; and with it each beast, Each stupid stock there can the same attest; Each stone of these high mountains, which so oft I with the voice of my complaints made soft. But what need I call any witnesse else To prove my love, where so much beauty dwels? Behold these flow'rs which make low earth so proud! Those Stars which nail Heav'ns pavement! all these crowd Into one ring: A beautie like that same Is the high cause and forcer of my flame. For as by nature Water doth descend,

The Fire unto the higher Regions tend The Air obliquely spread it self, the Ground Lie still, and heav'n about all these turn round. So naturally do I incline to thee, As to my chiefest good; so naturally To those lov'd beauties (as unto her sole) With all her wing'd affections flyes my soul. And he that should imagine he had force Her from her dearest object to divorce, Might with as much facility command The Air, the Fire, the Water and the Land, The Heavens too from their accustom'd track, And make the Pillars of the world to crack. But since thou bidst me say but little, I Shall say but little, saying that I dye: And shall doe lesse in dying, since I see How much my death is coveted by thee. Yet I shall doe (alas) all that is left For me to do, of hopes in love bereft. But (cruell soul) when I am in my grave, Some pitie then upon my suffrings have. Ah! fair and lov'd, and that wert once the sweet Cause of my life (whilst Heaven thought it meet) Turn those bright lamps upon me, as beni'ne And pitifull as ere I saw them shine, Once ere I dye, that I may dye in peace. Let those fair amiable eyes release My life, now bitter, which once sweetned it;

And those bright Starres, which my loves torches li't, Light too my Funerall tapers, and forerun, As once my rising, now my setting Sun. But thou more hard then ere thou wert before, Feel'st yet no spark of pity; but art more Stiffe with my pray'rs. Must I then talk alone? Wretch that I am, discourse I to a stone? Say Dye, at least, it nothing else thou'lt say; And thou shalt see me dye. O Love! what way Canst thou not plague me? when this Nymph that's nurst In cruelty, and for my blood did thirst, Finding my death would now a favour be, Ev'n that sad favour doth deny to me? Nor will reply a syllable, or daign One stabbing word to put me out of pain?

Am.

To answer thee if I had promised, As well as hear thee, this were justly sed. Thou call'st me cruell, hoping, that to shun That vice, into the contrary I'le run. But know, my ears are not so tickeled With that (by me so little merited) And lesse desired) praise thou giv'st to me Of beauty, as to hear my self by thee " Stil'd Cruell; which to be to any other I grant were vice; t'is vertue to a Lover: And what thou harshnesse call'st and crueltie, " Is in a woman perfect honestie. But say, that ev'n t'a Lover 'twere a sin;

Yet tell me, when hath Amarillis bin Cruell to thee? was't then when justice bad To use no pitie; yet on thee I had So much, that I from death deliver'd thee? I mean, when 'mongst a noble companie Of modest Virgins mingled, thou didst cover With a Maid's habit a libidinous Lover: And, our chast sports polluting, didst intrude 'Mongst kisses feign'd and innocent thy lewd And wanton kisses (such an act, as yet I blush as oft as I but think on it). But at that time I knew thee not (Heav'n knows) And when I did, my indignation rose. Thy wantonnesse I from my mind did keep, And suffred not the amorous plague to creep To my chast heart: on my lips outer skin The poyson stuck, but none of it got in. " A mouth that's kiss'd perforce, " If it spit out the kisse, is ne're the worse. But what wouldst thou by that bold theft have got, If I had to those Nymphs discover'd what Thou wert? the Thracian women never tore And murther'd Orpheus so on Hebrus shore, As they had thee, unlesse her clemencie Whom thou call'st cruell now had rescu'd thee. But she is not so cruell as she ought To be: for if when she is cruell thought Thy boldnesse is so great, what would it be

If she were judged pitifull by thee? That honest pitie which I could, I gave; Other it is in vain for thee to crave, Or hope: " for amorous pitie she can ill " Bestow, who gave it all to one that will " Give her none back. If thou my Lover be, Love my good name, my life, my honestie. Thou seek'st impossibles; I am a ward To Heav'n, Earth watches me, and my reward If I transgresse, is death: but most of all, Vertue defends me with a brasen wall. " For she that is protected by her honour, " Scorns there should be a safer guard upon her. Look to thy safety then, and do not give Battell to me, Mirtillo: fly, and live, If thou be wise. " For out of sense of smart " T' abandon life, argues but a faint heart. " And 'tis the part of vertue to abstain " From what we love, if it will prove our bane.

Mir.

" He that no longer can resist must yeeld.

Am.

" Where vertue is, all passions quit the field.

Mir.

" Love triumphs over vertue.

Am.

Let that man " That cannot what he will, will what he can.

Mir.

" Necessitie of loving hath no law.

Am.

" Love's wounds will heal, which salves of absence draw.

Mir.

" We fly in vain what we about us carry.

Am.

" Love drives out love like following billows: Marry.

Mir.

Strange levitie in me thou dost presume.

Am.

" If all wayes fail, time will thy love consume.

Mir.

But first my love will have consumed me.

Am.

Is there no cure then for thy malady?

Mir.

No cure at all but that which death affords.

Am.

Death? let me speak then; and be sure these words Be as a charm unto thee: though I know " When Lovers talk of dying, it doth show " An amorous custome rather of the tongue, " Then a resolve of minde (continuing long) " To do't indeed: yet if thou ere shouldst take So strange a frenzie; know, when thou dost make Away thy self, thou murtherst my fame too: Live then (if thou dost love me) and adieu: I shall esteem thee henceforth most discreet, If thou take care we two may never meet.

Mir.

Sad doom! without my life how can I live? Or without death end to my torments give?

Am.

Mirtillo, 'Tis high time thou wentst away, Thou hast already made too long a stay: Be gone; and take this cordiall along, " Of hopelesse Lovers there's a numerous throng, " There is no wound but carries with it pain, And there are others may of love complain.

Mir.

I know I'm not the only man hath lost His Love; but onely wretched I am tost 'Twixt life and death; of whom it may be sed, That I am neither living, nor yet dead.

Am.

Be gone, be gone.

Mir.

O wofull parting! O

End of my dayes! from thee how can I go, And yet not dye? The pangs of death I'm sure I feel, and all that parting souls endure. For mine, 'tis past into my griefs: Hence I Have ceas'd to live, those live immortally.