L'Aminta, di Torquato Tasso, favola boscherecchia. Tasso's Aminta, a pastoral comedy, in Italian and English.

SCENE the SECOND.

Aminta. Daphne. Nerina.

Am.

TRULY uncompassionate was your Compassion, Daphne, when you held back the Dart; because my Death will be the more bitter, the more it is delay'd. And now, why do you perplex me in vain with such different Designs, and va∣rious Discourses? What are you afraid of? lest I should Kill myself? You are afraid of my Happiness.

Daph.

Don't despair, A∣minta, for if I know her well, 'twas only Modesty, and not Cruelty, that mov'd Syl∣via to fly from thee.

Am.

Alas! that De∣spair should be my only Refuge, since Hope alone has proved my Ruin: and yet, alas! Hope still struggles to revive within my Breast, only to bid me live; and what can be a greater Evil than Life to such a Wretch, as I am?

Daph.

Live, unhappy Aminta!

live in your Misery; and support this Con∣dition to be made one Day happy; and when that Time comes, may those Charms which you saw in the fair Naked one, if you maintain yourself in Life and Hope, be the Reward of your Hope.

Am.

Love and my hard Fate thought not my Misery com∣pleat enough; but that they must shew me, to encrease it still, that, which was denied me.

Neri.

Must I be then the Raven, sini∣ster Messenger of most bitter Tidings? O! for ever unfortunate Montanus! How great will your Grief be, when you shall hear of the hard Mischance of your only Sylvia? Poor, old, unhappy, childless Father; a Father now no more.

Daph.

I hear a sad lamenting Voice.

Am.

I hear the Name of Sylvia, which strikes through my Ears and Heart: but who is that, that names Her?

Daph.

'Tis Nerina, that gentle Nymph, who is so Dear to Diana; who has such lovely Eyes and fair Hands, and so becoming and graceful a Behaviour.

Neri.

And yet he must know it, that he may endeavour to find the unhappy Relicks, if any remain: Alas! poor Sylvia, alas! your hard unhappy Fate.

Am.

Ah me! what is the Matter, what does She say?

Neri.

Oh! Daphne.

Daph.

Why do you speak to yourself, and name Sylvia thus Sighing?

Neri.

Alas! It is with Reason that I sigh for her hard Misfortune.

Am.

Ah! what Misfortune

can she be speaking of? I seel, I feel, that my Heart is all frozen, and my Breath stopp'd. Does she Live?

Daph.

Speak, what is this unhappy Accident you talk of?

Neri.

O Heavens! must I be then the Mes∣senger? and yet I must relate it. Sylvia came to my Cottage Naked; and what was the occasion of it, you perhaps may best know; When she was dress'd again, she desir'd me to go to the Chace with her, which was appointed in the Grove, that's called the Grove of Oaks. I comply'd with her: we went, and there we found a great many Nymphs assembled together; and within a little while, behold, I know not from whence, there rush'd out a Wolf, of a pro∣digious size; from his Jaws distill'd a bloody Foam. Sylvia fitted an Arrow to the string of her Bow, which I gave her; let fly at him, and hit him on the Top of the Head: He made into the Wood again, and Sylvia brandish∣ing her Dart, pursu'd him thither.

Am.

Oh! sorrowful Beginning; what Conclusion does it promise?

Neri.

I, with another Dart, follow'd the same Track, but far behind; because I set out later. When they came into the Wood, I lost Sight of them; but I follow'd their Foot-steps so far, till I came into the thickest, and most soli∣tary Part of the Wood: There I saw the Dart of Sylvia on the Ground, and not far from thence a white Veil, which I myself

had bound about her Hair: the mean while, looking about me, I saw Seven Wolves, which were licking some Blood from the Earth, which was sprinkl'd about some naked Bones; 'twas my good Fortune, that I was not perceiv'd by them, they were so intent upon their Feeding: so that I return'd back, full of Fear and Compassion; and this is all I can tell you of Sylvia: See, here is the Veil.

Am.

Think you, you have said but little? O Veil! O Blood! O Sylvia! thou art Dead.

Daph.

Poor Youth, he Dies with Grief; alas! He's Dead.

Ner.

No, he breathes a little still; it may only be a short Trance: See, he recovers.

Am.

Oh Grief! why dost thou thus Torment me? and wilt not end me; slow thou art, likely because thou leavest the Work to my own Hand: I am, I am content that my own Hand shall take that Office; since either thou refusest, or can'st not perform it: Alas! if nothing is now wanting to the Certainty, and nothing wanting to the Extremity of my Misery, why do I linger? what can I more expect! O Daphne! Daphne! to what End, to what bitter End have you reserv'd me? Pleasant and Sweet had been my Death then, when I would have kill'd myself; but you denied me that, and Heaven too, which knew that I should by my Death have pre∣vented that Misery, it had prepared for me.

But now it has inflicted upon me, the Ex∣tremity of its Cruelty, it will suffer me to Die, and you ought also to give me leave.

Daph.

Wait, before your Death, till the Truth be better known.

Am.

Alas! what would you have me wait? Alas! I have waited too long, and heard too much.

Ner.

Ah! would I had been Dumb.

Am.

I be∣seech you Nymph give me that Veil, the sad and only Remainder of her; that it may accompany me in this short Space of Way and Life which is yet remaining to me; and by its Presence encrease that Martyrdom, which indeed would be no Mar∣tyrdom, if I wanted any thing more to help me to Die.

Ner.

Ought I to give it, or deny it; the Reason why he asks makes it my Duty to deny it.

Am.

Cruel Nymph! do you deny me so small a Gift in my last Extremity? and in this my Fate shews it self still more Malicious. I yield, I yield, may it remain with you, and stay ye also, I go never to return again.

Daph.

Stay, A∣minta, hear me; Alas! with what Fury he parts from us.

Ner.

He runs so swiftly, that 'twould be in vain to follow him; my best way is to go on my Journey; and per∣haps it would be better for me to hold my Peace, and say nothing to the unhappy Montanus.