Chapter VI: Book I (1)

What time unto my sad and mournful cry,
Unto the ill-tuned music of my lyre,
The hill and mead, the plain and stream reply
In bitter echo of my vain desire,
Then take thou, wind, that heedless hastenest by,
The plaints which from my breast, chilled with love's fire,
Issue in my despite, asking in vain
Succour from stream and hill, from mead and plain.

The stream is swollen by the tears which flow
Forth from my wearied eyes: the flowery mead
Blooms with the brambles and the thorns that grow
Into my soul: the lofty hill doth heed
Nowise my sorrows; and the plain below
Of hearing is awearied: in my need
No solace, e'er so small, to assuage my ill
I find in stream or plain, in mead or hill.

I thought the fire that sets the heart aflame,
Lit by the wingèd boy, the cunning net,
Within whose mesh he doth the gods entame,
The strangling noose, the arrow he doth whet
In frenzied wrath, would wound the peerless dame
As me they wound, who am her slave; and yet
No noose nor fire hath power against a heart
That is of marble made, nor net nor dart.

But lo, 'tis I who burn within the blaze,
I waste away: before the net unseen
I tremble not: my neck I humbly place
Within the noose; and of his arrow keen
I have no fear: thus to this last disgrace
Have I been brought--so great my fall has been
That for my glory and my heart's desire
The dart and net I count, the noose and fire.

Thus on the banks of the Tagus sang Elicio, a shepherd on whom nature had lavished as many gifts as fortune and love had withheld; though the course of time, that consumes and renews man's handiwork, had brought him to such a pass, that he counted for happiness the endless misfortunes in which he had found himself, and in which his desire had placed him, for the incomparable beauty of the peerless Galatea, a shepherdess born on those same banks. Although brought up in pastoral and rustic exercises, yet was she of so lofty and excellent an understanding, that gentle ladies, nurtured in royal palaces, and accustomed to the refined manners of the Court, counted themselves happy to approach her in discretion as in beauty, by reason of the many noble gifts with which Heaven had adorned Galatea. She was loved and desired with earnest passion by many shepherds and herdsmen, who tended their herds by the banks of the Tagus: amongst whom the gay Elicio made bold to love her, with a love as pure and honest, as the virtue and modesty of Galatea allowed. It must not be thought of Galatea that she despised Elicio, still less that she loved him: for, at times, almost persuaded, as it were, and overcome by the many services of Elicio, she with some modest favour would raise him to heaven; and, at other times, without taking account of this, she would disdain him in such wise, that the love-sick shepherd scarce knew his lot. The excellencies and virtues of Elicio were not to be despised, nor were the beauty, grace, and goodness of Galatea not to be loved. On the one hand, Galatea did not wholly reject Elicio; on the other, Elicio could not, nor ought he to, nor did he wish to, forget Galatea. It seemed to Galatea, that since Elicio loved her with such regard to her honour, it would be too great an ingratitude not to reward his modest thoughts with some modest favour. Elicio fancied that since Galatea did not disdain his services, his desires would have a happy issue; and, whenever these fancies revived his hope, he found himself so happy and emboldened, that a thousand times he wished to discover to Galatea what he kept concealed with so much difficulty. But Galatea's discretion well knew from the movements of his face what Elicio had in his mind; and she gave such an expression to hers that the words of the love-sick shepherd froze in his mouth, and he rested content with the mere pleasure of that first step: for it seemed to him that he was wronging Galatea's modesty in treating of things that might in some way have the semblance of not being so modest, that modesty itself might take their form. With these up and downs the shepherd passed his life so miserably that, at times, he would have counted as gain the evil of losing her, if only he might not feel the pain which it caused him not to win her. And so one day, having set himself to consider his varied thoughts, in the midst of a delightful meadow, invited by the solitude and by the murmur of a delightful streamlet that ran through the plain, he took from his wallet a polished rebeck (singing to the sound of which he was wont to communicate his plaints to Heaven), and with a voice of exceeding beauty sang the following verses:

Amorous fancy, gently ride
On the breeze if thou wouldst show
That I only am thy guide,
Lest disdain should bring thee low,
Or contentment fill with pride.
Do thou choose a mean, if fate
Grants thee choice amidst thy plight,
Neither seek to flee delight
Nor yet strive to bar the gate
'Gainst the woe of Love's dark night.

If it be thy wish that I
Of my life the course should run,
Take it not in wrath: on high
Raise it not, where hope is none,
Whence it can but fall to die.
If presumption lead astray,
And so lofty be thine aim,
This at last thy course will stay:--
Either thou wilt come to shame,
Or my heart thy debts will pay.

Born therein, thy sinning lay
In thy birth; the guilt was thine,
Yet for thee the heart must pay.
If to keep thee I design,
'Tis in vain, thou fleest away.
If thou stayest not thy flight,
Wherewith thou dost mount the skies
(Should but fate thy fortunes blight)
Thou wilt plunge in deep abyss
Thy repose and my delight.

Who to fate, thou mayst declare,
Yields himself, does well: his spirit,
Spurring on to do and dare,
Not as folly but as merit
Will be counted everywhere.
To aspire so loftily,
Yearning thus to reach the goal,
Peerless glory 'tis to thee,--
All the more when heart and soul
Do with the design agree.

Thee to undeceive I seek,
For I understand the meaning:
'Tis the humble and the meek,
Rather than the overweening,
Who of Love's delights can speak.
Greater beauty cannot be
Than the beauty thou desirest;
Thy excuse I fail to see,
How it comes that thou aspirest
Where is no equality.

Fancy, if it hath desire
Something raised on high to view,
Looks and straightway doth retire,
So that none may deem it true
That the gaze doth thus aspire.
How much more doth Love arise
If with confidence united
Whence it draws its destinies.
But if once its hope be blighted,
Fading like a cloud it dies.

Thou who lookest from afar
On the goal for which thou sighest,
Hopeless, yet unto thy star
True,--if on the way thou diest,
Diest knowing not thy care.
Naught there is that thou canst gain,
For, amidst this amorous strife,
Where the cause none may attain,
Dying is but honoured life,
And its chiefest glory pain.

The enamoured Elicio would not so soon have ended his agreeable song, had there not sounded on his right hand the voice of Erastro, who with his herd of goats was coming towards the place where he was. Erastro was a rustic herdsman; yet his rustic lot, out in the woods, did not so far prevail with him as to forbid that Gentle Love should take entire possession of his manly breast, making him love more than his life the beauteous Galatea, to whom he did declare his plaints whenever occasion presented itself to him. And though rustic, he was, like a true lover, so discreet in things of love, that whenever he discoursed thereon, it seemed that Love himself revealed them to him, and by his tongue uttered them; yet withal (although they were heard by Galatea), they were held of such account as things of jest are held. To Elicio the rivalry of Erastro did not give pain, for he understood from the mind of Galatea that it inclined her to loftier things--rather did he have pity and envy for Erastro: pity in seeing that he did indeed love, and that in a quarter where it was impossible to gather the fruit of his desires; envy in that it seemed to him that perhaps his understanding was not such as to give room for his soul to feel the flouts or favours of Galatea in such a way that either the latter should overwhelm him, or the former drive him mad. Erastro came accompanied by his mastiffs, the faithful guardians of the simple sheep, which under their protection were safe from the carnivorous teeth of the hungry wolves; he made sport with them, and called them by their names, giving to each the title that its disposition and spirit deserved. One he would call Lion, another Hawk, one Sturdy and another Spot; and they, as if they were endowed with understanding, came up to him and, by the movement of their heads, expressed the pleasure which they felt at _his_ pleasure. In such wise came Erastro to where he was amiably received by Elicio, and even asked, allowing that he had not determined to spend the warm season of the sultry noon-tide in any other place, since that place in which they were was so fitted for it, whether it would be irksome to him to spend it in his company.

'With no one,' replied Erastro, 'could I pass it better than with you, Elicio, unless indeed it were with her who is as stubborn to my entreaties as she has proved herself a very oak to your unending plaints.'

Straightway the twain sat them down on the close-cropped grass, allowing the herd to wander at will, blunting, with teeth that chew the cud, the tender little shoots of the grassy plain. And as Erastro by many plain tokens knew perfectly well that Elicio loved Galatea, and that the merit of Elicio was of greater carat than his own, in token that he recognised this truth, in the midst of his converse, among other discourses addressed to him the following:

'I know not, gay and enamoured Elicio, if the love I have for Galatea has been the cause of giving you pain, and if it has, you must pardon me, for I never thought to offend you, nor of Galatea did I seek aught save to serve her. May evil madness or cruel rot consume and destroy my frisky kids and my tender lambkins! when they leave the teats of their dear mothers, may they not find in the green meadow aught to sustain them save bitter colocynth and poisonous oleander, if I have not striven a thousand times to put her from my memory, and if I have not gone as many times more to the leeches and priests of the place, that they might give me a cure for the anguish I suffer on her account! Some of them bid me take all kinds of love-potions, others tell me to commend myself to God, who cures everything, or that it is all madness. Suffer me, good Elicio, to love her, for you can be sure that if you, with your talents and admirable graces and discourses, do not soften her, I shall scarce be able, with my simple ways, to move her to pity. This favour I beg of you, by what I am indebted to your deserving: for, even if you do not grant it me, it would be as impossible to cease loving her, as to cause these waters to cease from giving moisture, or the sun with his combed tresses from giving us light.'

Elicio could not refrain from laughing at Erastro's discourse, and at the courtesy with which he begged of him permission to love Galatea; and thus he replied to him: 'It does not pain me indeed, Erastro, that you love Galatea; it pains me much to know from her disposition, that your truthful discourses and sincere words will be of little avail with her. May God give you as fair success in your desires as the sincerity of your thoughts deserve! and henceforward cease not on my account to love Galatea; for I am not of so mean a disposition that, if fortune fail me, I rejoice that others should not attain her. But I pray you, by what you owe to the good-will I show you, that you should not deny me your converse and friendship, since of mine you can be as sure as I have declared to you. Let our herds go united, since our thoughts go in unison. You to the sound of your pipe will declare the pleasure or the pain which Galatea's joyous or sorrowful countenance shall cause you, I to the sound of my rebeck, in the silence of the stilly night, or in the heat of the glowing noon-tide, in the cool shade of the green trees by which this bank of ours is made so fair, will help you to carry the heavy load of your trouble, proclaiming mine to Heaven. And in token of our good intent and true friendship, while the shadows of these trees grow longer, and the sun is declining towards the west, let us tune our instruments and make a beginning of the practice which henceforth we are to follow.'

Erastro did not need asking, but with signs of supreme content at seeing himself in such friendship with Elicio, drew forth his pipe, and Elicio his rebeck: and, one beginning, and the other replying, they sang what follows:

ELICIO.
Ungrateful Love, thy servant thou didst place
In sweet, caressing, peaceful bonds the day
When first I saw the golden hair and face
Of that fair sun that dimmed the sun's own ray.
Straightway I came to drink with eager gaze
Love's cruel bliss, which, like a serpent, lay
Within the ruddy tresses; for 'twas there
I saw the sun, amid the clustered hair.

ERASTRO.
I stood amazed, and filled with rapturous flame,
Voiceless was I like to a flinty rock,
When Galatea's grace and beauty came,
In all their loveliness my sight to mock.
On my left side stood Love (ah bitter shame!),
My love-lorn breast sustained his arrow's shock,
A gate was opened in me by his dart
Whereby the maid might come and steal my heart.

ELICIO.
His breast, who, wretched, follows in thy train,
Love, by what miracle dost open wide?
What glory from the wound doth he attain,
The wound that thou didst deal him in his side?
Whence from the loss thou sendest, comes the gain?
And whence the joyous life when thou hast died?
The soul that hath endured these at thine hand
The cause, but not the ways can understand.

ERASTRO.
So many faces in a broken glass
Are seen not, nor in glass formed with such art,
That if one looks therein, one sees to pass
A multitude portrayed in every part,
As are the cares on cares that spring, alas!
From that cruel care, which from my shattered heart
Goes not away, though conqueror in the strife,
Until it doth depart along with life.

ELICIO.
The white snow of her cheek, the crimson rose
Which neither summer wastes nor winter's cold,
The sun's twain morning-stars, wherein repose
Soft Love doth find, the spot where time untold
Shall guard the voice, strong to subdue our woes,
As did hell's furies Orpheus' voice of old,
The many charms I saw, though blind I ween,
Have made me tinder for the fire unseen.

ERASTRO.
Twain apples rosy-red no tree can bear
As those in Galatea's cheeks displayed;
Iris herself could boast no bow so fair
As the twain archèd eye-brows of the maid,
Two rays of light, two threads, beyond compare,
Of pearls 'twixt scarlet:--and if more be said--
The peerless graces which in her I find
A cloud have made me to the amorous wind.

ELICIO.
I burn nor am consumed, I live and die,
Far from myself am I and yet so near,
I sink to hell, I rise to Heaven on high,
One thing alone I hope, and yet I fear.
Gentle, yet fierce--for what I loathe I sigh,
To love thee racks my soul with torment drear,
Thus step by step already am I come,
Drawn in these different ways to my last doom.

ERASTRO.
Elicio, mark! how gladly would I pour
At Galatea's feet all that she hath left
To me in life, if but she would restore
The heart and soul whereof I am bereft.
My herd I would bestow, and furthermore
My Spot and Hawk, if she would but the theft
Forego: but ah! the goddess on her throne
More than aught else would have my soul alone.

ELICIO.
Erastro, mark! if once the heart on high
Be placed by fate, or chance, or what you will,
To pluck it down 'twere foolishness to try
By force, or art, or any human skill.
Rejoice that she is blessed; though thou canst die
In truth without her, 'tis my thought that still
No life on earth can be more full of bliss
Than death for such a noble cause as this.

Erastro was already setting himself to follow on in his song when they perceived, by a thickly wooded hillock which was at their back, no slight clamour and sound; and, both rising to their feet to see what it was, they saw a shepherd descending from the mountain, running at the greatest speed in the world, with a naked knife in his hand, and the hue of his countenance changed, and, coming after him, another shepherd swift of foot, who in a few strides overtook the first, and seizing him by the collar of his skin-coat, raised his arm in the air as high as he could, and a sharp dagger which he carried unsheathed, and buried it twice in his body, saying:

'Receive, oh ill-starred Leonida, the life of this traitor, which I offer up in vengeance of your death.'

This happened with such rapidity that Elicio and Erastro had not the opportunity to stop him; for they came up at the time when the stricken shepherd was already giving out his last breath, struggling to utter these few ill-formed words:

'Would that you had allowed me, Lisandro, to satisfy Heaven with a longer repentance for the wrong I did you, and had then taken from me the life which, for the reason I have said, now departs from this flesh ill-content.'

And without being able to say more he closed his eyes in everlasting night. By these words Elicio and Erastro fancied that for no small cause had the other shepherd inflicted on him so cruel and violent a death. And the better to inform themselves of the whole occurrence, they would fain have inquired of the murderous shepherd; but he, with retreating step, leaving the shepherd dead and the two wondering, turned to go back into the hillock beyond. And when Elicio desired to follow him, and to learn from him what he wished, they saw him come again out of the wood, and, being a good space distant from them, in a loud voice he said to them:

'Pardon me, gentle shepherds, if I have not been gentle in having wrought in your presence that which you have seen, for the just and mortal rage which I had conceived against that traitor did not permit a more moderate course on my part. What I counsel you is, that, if you would not anger the Deity that dwells in high Heaven, you should not offer the last rites and accustomed prayers for the traitorous soul of that body which you have before you, nor give it burial, if here in your country it is not the custom to give it to traitors.'

And, saying this, he turned with all speed to go into the forest, with so much haste as to take away from Elicio the hope of overtaking him, even though he followed him. And so the twain with tender hearts turned to perform the pious office, and to give burial, as best they could, to the wretched body, which had so suddenly ended the course of its short days. Erastro went to his hut which was not far away, and, bringing sufficient implements, made a grave at the very spot where the body was; and, bidding it the last farewell, they placed it therein. Not without compassion for his hapless lot they returned to their herds, and, collecting them again with some haste (for the sun was already entering with all speed by the gates of the west), betook themselves to their accustomed shelters, where neither the comfort they felt therein, nor the little that his cares allowed him, could keep Elicio from wondering what causes had moved the two shepherds to come to so desperate a pass; and already he regretted that he had not followed the murderous shepherd, and learnt from him, if possible, what he wished. With this thought, and with the many that his love caused in him, after leaving his herd in a place of safety, he went out from his hut, as was his wont at other times, and by the light of the beauteous Diana, who showed herself resplendent in the sky, he entered the denseness of a dense wood beyond, seeking some solitary spot where, in the silence of the night, with greater peace he might give rein to his amorous fancies: for it is an assured fact that, to sad, fanciful hearts, there is no greater joy than solitude, the awakener of sad or happy memories. And thus going little by little, enjoying a gentle breeze which blew against his face, full of most delicate scents, which from the scented flowers wherewith the green earth was heaped it gently stole, as it passed through them wrapped in the delicate air, he heard a voice as of one who grievously complained, and checking for a while his breath within him, so that the sound might not hinder him from hearing what it was, he perceived that from some thickset bramble bushes, a little way off, the mournful voice proceeded, and though interrupted by endless sighs, he understood that it uttered these sad words:

'Cowardly and craven arm, mortal enemy of that which you owe to yourself, look, naught now remains on which to take vengeance, save yourself! What does it profit you to prolong the life I hold in so great abhorrence? If you think that our ill is of those that time is wont to heal, you live deceived, for there is nothing more remote from cure than our misfortune: seeing that she who might have made mine pleasant, had a life so short that, in the green years of her joyous youth, she offered it to the blood-thirsty knife, that it might take it from her, through the treason of the wicked Carino. He to-day, by losing his own, will have in part appeased that blessed soul of Leonida, if, in the heavenly region where she dwells, she can cherish desire for any vengeance. Ah, Carino, Carino! I beseech the high Heavens, if by them just prayers are heard, not to heed the plea, if any you offer, for the treachery you have done me, and to suffer that your body may lack burial, even as your soul lacked mercy. And you, fair and hapless Leonida, receive, in token of the love I bore you in life, the tears I shed at your death; and put it not down to lack of feeling that I do not end my life, with all I feel at your death: for a grief that should end so soon would be a scant return for what I ought and wish to feel. You will see, if you take account of things here, how this wretched body will one day be consumed by grief, little by little, for its greater grief and suffering: even as powder, moist and kindled, which, without making a noise, or raising a flame on high, is consumed in itself, without leaving of itself aught save the traces of consumed ashes. It grieves me as much as it can grieve me, oh soul of my soul, seeing that I could not enjoy you in life, that in death I cannot perform for you the last rites and honours which befitted your goodness and virtue; but I promise to you, and swear, for the short time--and it will be very short--that this impassioned soul of mine shall rule the heavy burden of this wretched body, and my weary voice have breath to form it, not to treat aught else in my sad and bitter songs save your praises and deserts.'

At this point the voice ceased, from the sound of which Elicio clearly perceived that it was the murderous shepherd; whereat he was much rejoiced, because it seemed to him that he was in a position to learn from him what he desired. And, wishing to approach more closely, he needs must stop again, for it seemed to him that the shepherd was tuning a rebeck, and he wished first to hear if he should say anything to its sound. And he did not wait long before he heard him, with gentle and tuneful voice, singing after this wise:

LISANDRO.
Blest soul, that from the veil
Of human life below

Free to the realms above didst, deathless, wing,
Leaving as in a jail
Of misery and woe
This life of mine which yet to thee did cling!
The bright light of the spring,
When thou art gone is dead,
And beaten to the ground
The hope I thought to found
On that firm seat where joy its radiance shed.
Alas! when thou wert gone,
My life died too: naught lived save grief alone.

Death claimed thee for his prey,
He revelled in his prize,
Thy loveliness beyond compare he marred;
He came to take away
The light of these mine eyes
Which gazed on thee and did their riches hoard.
Swiftly beneath his sword,
Like wax in summer's sun
Or cloud before the wind,
The fancies of my mind
Which sprang from glorious Love have been undone.
The stone above thy tomb
Shuts in my fortune and declares my doom.

How could thy brother speed
His cruel, ruthless hand
In hot revengeful purpose 'gainst thy heart?
How came the wicked deed
To tear thee from the land
And set thee from thy mortal veil apart?
Why sought he with his dart
Two lovers thus to sever?
Our love had had no end,
Our pathway would we wend
In holy wedlock hand in hand for ever.
Command why didst thou give,
Cruel, scornful hand! that dying I should live?

My hapless soul shall spend
The days, the months, the years,
In sad laments that ne'er shall reach their close.
'Midst joys that have no end
Thy soul shall know no fears
Of stubborn time--forgot for aye thy woes;
Secure in thy repose,
The bliss thou shalt behold
That thy good life hath won
Which ne'er shall be undone:
Him that so loved thee in remembrance hold,
If unto thee be given
To keep remembrance of the earth in Heaven.

Blest, lovely soul above!
How foolish have I been
To ask that thou shouldst mind thee of thy swain;
Who gave thee all his love.
Eternally, I ween,
Shall I, if thou art kind, thus feel my pain.
'Twere better for my gain
That I should be forgot,
That woe should waste away
The life that yet doth stay,
That I should perish 'neath my cruel lot,
Since in my bitter grief
Death's ill I count not ill, but sweet relief.

Amidst the holy choir,
Amongst the sainted dead,
Dear soul! enjoy the wealth of Heaven's delight,
That fears nor time nor fire;
The mercies that are shed
On all who flee not from the path of right.
I hope to reach that height,
To dwell with thee in bliss,
Amidst eternal spring,
If to thy steps I cling
And know no dread nor yet the pathway miss.
Oh lead me to this goal!
For such a deed as this befits thy soul.

And then, blest souls that dwell in Heaven, behold
The good that I desire,
Enlarge the wings of this my good desire.

Here ceased the voice, but not the sighs of the hapless swain who had sung, and both served to increase in Elicio the desire to know who he was. And bursting through the thorny brambles so as to reach more quickly the spot whence the voice proceeded, he came to a little meadow which, in the fashion of a theatre, was girt all round with very dense and tangled shrubs; and there he saw a shepherd who was standing in an attitude of great vigour, with his right foot advanced and his left behind, his right arm raised in the manner of one hoping to make a mighty throw. And such was the truth, for at the noise which Elicio had made in bursting through the bushes, he, thinking it was some wild beast (against which the woodland shepherds were forced to defend themselves), had placed himself in a position to hurl at him a weighty stone he was holding in his hand. Elicio, perceiving his intent by his posture, before he could accomplish it, said to him: 'Calm your bosom, hapless shepherd, for he who comes hither, brings a bosom ready for all you might ask of it; desire to learn your fortune has made him break in upon your tears, and disturb the solace which might attend upon you in solitude.'

With these gentle and courteous words of Elicio the shepherd was calmed, and with no less gentleness replied to him, saying: 'I gratefully acknowledge your kind offer, whoever you be, courteous shepherd; but, as for fortune, if you desire to learn mine who never had any, you will scarce be able to have your wish.' 'You speak true,' answered Elicio, 'since from the words and plaints I this night have heard from you, you clearly show the little or none that you have. But you will no less satisfy my desire by telling me your troubles than by making known to me your joys. May fortune give you these in what you desire, so that you do not deny me what I beg of you, if indeed your not knowing me do not prevent it; although I would have you know, so as to reassure and move you, that I have not a soul so happy as not to feel as much as it should the miseries you would recount to me. This I tell you, for I know that nothing is more wasted, nay thrown away, than for an unhappy man to recount his woes to one whose heart is brimful with joys.' 'Your kindly words,' answered the shepherd, 'compel me to satisfy you in what you ask me, not only that you may not fancy that from a mean and craven soul spring the complaints and lamentations you say you have heard from me, but also that you may realise that the feeling I show is but small as compared with the cause I have for showing it.'

Elicio thanked him heartily, and after some more courteous words had passed between the two, Elicio giving proof that he was a true friend of the woodland shepherd, the latter, recognising that they were not feigned promises, granted in the end what Elicio asked. The twain sate them down on the green grass, covered with the splendour of the fair Diana, who could that night rival her brother in brightness, and the woodland shepherd, with tokens of a tender grief, began to speak in this wise:

'On the banks of the Betis, a stream exceeding rich in waters, which enriches great Vandalia, was born Lisandro (for that is my luckless name), and of parents so noble that I would to Almighty God I had been begotten in a lowlier station; for ofttimes nobility of lineage lends wings and strength to the soul to raise the eyes to where a humble lot would never dare to raise them, and from such boldness calamities are often wont to spring such as you shall hear from me, if with attention you will listen to me. In my village was also born a shepherdess, whose name was Leonida, the sum of all the beauty which, as I fancy, could be found in a great part of the world,--born of parents no less noble and wealthy than her beauty and virtue deserved. Whence it came to pass that, the parents of both being among the chief people of the place, and the rule and government of the village being vested in them, envy, the deadly enemy of a peaceful life, brought about strife and mortal discord between them over some differences concerning the administration of the village, in such a manner that the village was divided into two factions; the one followed that of my parents, the other that of Leonida's, with so deep-rooted a hatred and malice that no human effort has been able to bring about peace between them. Fate then decreed, as though to shut out every prospect of friendship, that I should fall in love with the fair Leonida, daughter of Parmindro, the head of the opposite faction; and my love was, indeed, so great that, though I strove in countless ways to put it from my heart, they all ended in my remaining yet more vanquished and enslaved. Before me rose a mountain of difficulties, which hindered me from gaining the end of my desire, such as Leonida's great worth, the inveterate enmity of our parents, the few or no occasions which presented themselves to me for disclosing my thoughts to her: and yet, whenever I turned the eyes of fancy towards the rare beauty of Leonida, every difficulty was made smooth, so that it seemed to me a little thing to break through sharp points of adamant, that I might reach the goal of my loving and honourable thoughts. Having then for many days battled with myself, to see if I could turn my soul from a design so arduous, and seeing that it was impossible, I set all my skill on considering how I might give Leonida to understand the secret love in my breast. And even as, in any matter, the beginnings are always difficult, so in those that relate to love they are for the most exceedingly difficult, until Love himself, when he wishes to show himself favourable, opens the gates of the remedy, where they seem most closely barred. Thus it appeared in my case, for my thought being guided by his, I came to fancy that no better means presented themselves to my desire than to make friends with the parents of Silvia, a shepherdess who was a bosom friend of Leonida, and often they visited each other at their houses, in company with their parents. Silvia had a kinsman called Carino, a very close companion of Crisalvo, fair Leonida's brother, whose boldness and harshness of manner had gained him the nickname of cruel, and so, by all those who knew him, he was generally called cruel Crisalvo; and in the same way they called Carino, Silvia's kinsman and Crisalvo's companion, the cunning Carino, from his being officious and sharp-witted. With him and with Silvia (for it seemed to serve my purpose) by means of many presents and gifts I forged a friendship, to outward seeming: at least on Silvia's side it was stronger than I desired, for the presents and favours, which with pure heart she bestowed on me, constrained by my unceasing services, were by my fortune taken as instruments to place me in the misery where now I see myself. Silvia was passing fair, and adorned with graces so many that the hardness of Crisalvo's savage heart was moved to love her (but this I did not learn save to my hurt); and many days later, after that from long experience I was sure of Silvia's good-will, an opportunity offering itself one day, in the tenderest words I could, I disclosed to her the wound in my stricken breast, telling her that, though it was so deep and dangerous, I did not feel it so much, only because I thought that in her solicitude lay its cure. I informed her, too, of the honourable goal to which my thoughts were tending, which was to unite myself in lawful wedlock with the beauteous Leonida; and that, since it was a cause so just and good, she must not disdain to take it under her care. Finally, not to weary you, love furnished me with such words to say to her, that she, being overcome by them and more by the pain which she, like a clever woman, recognised from the signs of my face as dwelling in my soul, determined to take charge of my cure, and to tell Leonida what I felt for her, promising to do for me all that her power and skill might achieve, even though such an undertaking was fraught with difficulties for her, by reason of the great enmity she knew to exist between our parents; though, on the other hand she thought that it might put an end to their differences, if Leonida were to marry me. Moved then by this good intention, and softened by the tears I shed, as I have said before, she dared to intercede on behalf of my happiness, and, discussing with herself how she would approach Leonida, she made me write her a letter, which she offered to give her at the moment she thought fitting. Her counsel seemed to be for my good, and that same day I sent her a letter, which I have always known by heart, as having been the beginning of the happiness I felt at the reply to it, though it would be better not to remember happy things at a time so sad as that in which I now find myself. Silvia received the letter, and awaited the opportunity for placing it in Leonida's hands.'

'Nay,' said Elicio, interrupting Lisandro's discourse, 'it is not right that you should fail to repeat to me the letter you sent to Leonida, for, seeing that it was the first, and that you were so deeply in love at that time, it must undoubtedly be eloquent. And since you have told me that you know it by heart, and of the pleasure you obtained from it, do not now withhold it from me by not repeating it.'

'You say well, my friend,' replied Lisandro, 'for I was then as deeply in love and timid as now I am unhappy and despairing; and, on that account, it seems to me that I did not succeed in uttering any eloquent words, though it was sufficient success that Leonida should believe those which were in the letter. Since you wish so much to hear them, it ran as follows:

LISANDRO TO LEONIDA.

"So long as I have been able (though with very great grief to myself) to resist with my own strength the amorous flame which for you, fair Leonida, consumes me, fearful of the exalted worth which I recognise in you, I have never had the boldness to discover to you the love I bear you; but now that the virtue, which up till now has made me strong, is consumed, it has become necessary for me to disclose the wound in my breast, and thus, by writing to you, to make trial of the first and last remedy in your power. What the first may be, you know, and to be the last is in your hand, from which I hope for the pity that your beauty promises, and my honourable desires merit. What they are, and the goal to which they tend, you shall learn from Silvia, who will give you this: and since she has been so bold, being who she is, as to bring it to you, know that they are as honourable as is due to your merit".'

The words of this letter did not seem bad to Elicio, and Lisandro, continuing the story of his love, said:

'Many days did not pass before this letter came into the fair hands of Leonida, by means of the kindly hands of Silvia, my true friend. In giving it, she told her such things that she largely assuaged the rage and emotion which Leonida had felt at my letter, such as telling her how good it would be if through our marriage the enmity of our parents were to cease, and that an object so well meant should lead her not to reject my desires; all the more as it should not be compatible with her beauty to allow one who loved her as much as I to die, without more consideration; adding to these other reasonings, which Leonida recognised as just. But, so as not to show herself vanquished in the first encounter, and won in the first advance, she did not give to Silvia as pleasant a reply as she wished. But still, at the intercession of Silvia, who forced her to it, she replied with this letter which I shall now repeat to you:

LEONIDA TO LISANDRO.

"If I had thought, Lisandro, that your great daring had sprung from my lack of modesty, I would have carried out on myself the punishment that your fault deserves; but as what I know of myself makes me sure on this point, I have come to the conclusion that your great boldness has proceeded more from idle thoughts, than from thoughts of love; and though they may be as you say, think not that you can move me to cure them, as you did Silvia to believe them. I complain more of her for having made me answer you, than of you who dared to write to me, for silence had been fit answer to your folly. If you draw back from your purpose, you will act wisely, for I would have you know that I deem my honour of more account than your empty thoughts."