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

CHORO.

O Bella età de l'oro. Non già perche di latte Sen' corse il Fiume, e stillò mele il Bosco: Non perche is frutti loro Dier da l'aratro intatte Le terre, e gli angui errar senz' ira, ò tosco; Non perche nuvol fosco. Non spiegò allhor suo velo, Ma in primavera eterna, C'hora s'accende, e verna, Rise di luce, e di sereno il Cielo;

Nè portò peregrino O guerra, ò merce, à gli altrui lidi il pino; Mà sol perche quel vano Nome senza soggetto, Quell' Idolo d'errori, Idol d'inganno, Quel, che dal Volgo insano Honor poscia fu detto, (Che di nostra natura'l feo tiranno) Non mischiava il suo affanno Fra li liete dolcezze De l'amoroso gregge; Ne fù sua dura legge Nota à quell' alme in libertate auvezze: Mà legge aurea, e felice, Che Natura scolpì, S'ei piace, ei lice,

Allhor trà, fiori, e linfe, Trahean dolci carole Gl' Amoretti senz' archi; e senza faci; Sedean Pastori, e Ninfe, Meschiando à le parole Vezzi, e susurri, & à i susurri i baci Strettamente tenaci; La Verginella ignude Scopria sue fresche rose: C'hor tien nel velo ascose, E le poma del seno acerbe, e crude; E spesso in fonte, ò in lago Scherzar si vide con l'Amata il Vago. Tu prima, Honor, velasti, La fonte de i diletti, Negando l'onde à l'amorosa sete. Tu à begli occhi insegnasti

Di starne in se ristretti, E tener lor bellezze altrui secrete. Tu raccogliesti in rete Le chiome à l'aura sparte. Tu i dolci atti lascivi Festi ritrosi, & schivi, A i detti il frien ponesti, à i passi l'arte. Opra è tua sola, ò Honore, Che furto sia quel, che fu don d'Amore,

E son tuoi fatti egregi Le pene, e i pianti nostri Mà tu, d'Amore, e di Natura donno, Tu domator de' Regi, Che fai trà questi chiostri, Che la grandezza tua capir non ponno? Vattene, e turba il sonno A gl' illustri, e potenti. Noi qui negletta, e bassa Turba senza te lassa Viver ne l'uso de l'antiche genti.

Amiam, che non hà tregua Con gli anni humana vita, e si delegua, Amiam, ch'l Sol si muore, e poi rinasce: A noi sua breve luce S'asconde, e'l sono eterna notte adduce.

CHORUS.

O Happy Age of Gold, not because the Rivers ran with Milk, and Honey dropt from the Woods: not because the Fields produced the Fruits untouch'd with the Plow, and Serpents wander'd without Wrath and Venom; not because the black Cloud had not yet spread abroad its Veil, but the Heaven, which now glows with Heat, and freezes with Cold, smil'd with Light and Serenity in an eternal Spring;

nor the foreign Pine, as yet carry'd War and Merchandise to distant Shores; but only, because that empty Name without a Substance, that Idol of Error and Hypo∣crisy, which by the mad Vulgar was after∣wards call'd Honour, which they made the Tyrant of our Nature, had not yet mingled its Disquietude amongst the sweet Endear∣ments of the amorous Train, and its hard Laws were not yet known to Souls accustom'd to Liberty: but only that Golden happy Law, which Nature made, if it pleases, 'tis Lawful. Then amongst the Flowers and Streams, the little Loves led up their jocund Dances, without their Bows, and without their Torches: The Shepherds and Nymphs sate together, mingling Whispers with their pretty Discourses; and with their Whispers Kisses closely tenacious. The naked Maid display'd her blooming Roses, which she now keeps conceal'd beneath the Veil; and the Apples of her Breast now bitter, and distasteful; and often in a Fountain or a Lake, the loveful amorous Boy beheld himself wan∣tonly playing with the Maid he lov'd. Thou, Honour, first didst stop the Spring of Pleasures, denying Water to the thirst of Love: thou first didst teach lovely Eyes

to stand reserv'd within themselves, and keep their Beauty from all others secret: you first wove into a Net those Hairs, that were before scatter'd loosely to the Wind: you made sweet amorous Behaviour copy and dis∣dainful: you gave Words a Bridle, and to Steps an Art; Honour, 'tis thy doing, that, what was once the Gift of Love, is now the Theft. Our Pains and our Complaints are thy egregious Effects. But now, great Master of Love and Nature, thou Conquer∣our of Kings, what does thou do within these cloister'd Woods, which can't contain thy Grandeur? go hence and disturb the Repose of the Illustrious and Powerful, and suffer us neglected humble Company, to live without thee after the manner of the An∣cient Race of Men. Let us love, for the Life of Man has no Truce with Years, and is still consuming; let us love, for the Sun dies, and is born again; our short Light sets from us, and Sleep brings on eternal Night.