BOSCAN

1500-1543.

The first Spanish poet who introduced the Italian style was Mosen Juan

Boscan Almogaver. He was a man of mild and contemplative disposition,

and thus fitted to receive the shackles of rules of taste from others,

at the same time that, being a genuine poet, he could animate the

harmony and grace of his versification with earnest sentiments and

original thought. Restrain himself as he would, the genius of the

Spanish language and early association, forced him into greater

vividness and simplicity of expression than his Italian prototypes; and

at the same time, being a Catalonian, the very language of Castile,

which, as having become the classic language of his country, he adopted,

was to a certain degree a foreign tongue, and he could more easily

abandon the peculiar rhythm of its national poetry for versification,

such as was to be found in the productions of the Provençal poets, to

which his native country and dialect were akin.

Little is known of the life of Boscan beyond its mere outline. He was

born at Barcelona at the close of the fifteenth century, of a noble and

ancient family. He followed the career of arms in his youth, and

travelled during a few years. He married donna Ana Giron de Rebolledo, a

lady of distinguished birth; and he commemorates their domestic

happiness in his verses, dwelling on the detail with all the fondness

and pride that springs from a thankful enjoyment of a tranquil life.

After his marriage he resided almost constantly at his native town of

Barcelona, though sometimes he attended the court of the emperor Charles

V., where he was held in high consideration. At one time, strange to

say, he filled the office of governor to the youthful duke of Alva,

whose cruelties have gained for him such ill renown. That he was so, is

rather a blot in his character with us; among his countrymen it is

otherwise. Spanish writers regard the duke of Alva as a hero. His crimes

had place in a distant land--in his own he was distinguished for his

magnificence and his talents, while his very bigotry was considered a

virtue. When, therefore. Sedano mentions this circumstance, he speaks of

it with pride, saying, "Boscan's rank, joined to his blameless manners

and his talents, caused him to be chosen governor to the great duke of

Alva, don Fernando, which office he filled with success, as is proved by

the heroic virtues that adorned the soul of his pupil, which were the

result of Boscan's education."

From early youth Boscan was a poet; at first he wrote in the old Spanish

style; but he was still young when his attention was called to the

classic productions of Italy, and he was incited to adopt the Italian

versification and elegiac style, so to enlarge the sphere of Spanish

poetry. It was in the pear 1525 that Andrea Navagero came as ambassador

from Venice to the court of the emperor Charles V. at Toledo. The

Venetian was of noble birth, and so addicted to study as to injure his

health by the severity of his application.[11] A state of melancholy

ensued, only to be alleviated by travel. He was familiar with Greek and

Latin literature, and cultivated a refined taste that could scarcely be

satisfied by the most finished productions of his native land, while he

exercised the severest judgment, even to the destruction of his own. At

Toledo he fell in with Boscan and Garcilaso. Their tastes, their love of

poetry and of the classics, were the same; and the superior learning of

the Italian led him to act the preceptor to his younger friends. Through

his arguments they were led to quit the composition of their national

redondillas, and to aspire to introduce more elegance and a wider scope

of ideas into their native poetry. Boscan, in his dedication of a volume

of his poems, which included several of Garcilaso's, to the duchess of

Soma, thus mentions the circumstances that led them to contemplate this

change: "Conversing one day on literary subjects with Navagero the

Venetian ambassador (whom I wish to mention to your ladyship as a man of

great celebrity in these days), and particularly upon the different

genius of various languages, he inquired of me why, in Castilian, we

never attempted sonnets and other kinds of composition used by the best

writers in Italy; he not only said this, but urged me to set the

example. A few days after I departed home, and musing on a variety of

things during a long and solitary journey, frequently reflected on

Navagero's advice, and thus at length began the attempt. I found at

first some difficulty, as this kind of versification is extremely

complex, and has many peculiarities different from ours; but afterwards,

from the partiality we naturally entertain towards our own productions,

I thought I had succeeded well, and gradually grew warm and eager in the

pursuit. This, however, would not have been sufficient to stimulate me

to proceed, had not Garcilaso encouraged me, whose judgment, not only in

my opinion, but in that of the whole world, is esteemed a certain rule.

Praising uniformly my essays, and giving me the highest possible mark of

approbation in following himself my example, he induced me to devote

myself exclusively to the undertaking.

Every thing combines to give us the idea of Boscan as a good and a happy

man, enjoying so much of prosperity and rank as would make him feel

satisfied and complacent, and endowed with such talents as rendered

poetry a pleasing occupation, and the fame he acquired delightful.

Blessed with a mild and affectionate disposition, happily married,

living contented, he possessed advantages that must have added greatly

to his happiness, through the good fortune which gave him accomplished

and noble friends, addicted to the same studies, delighting in the same

pursuits, sympathising in his views, and affording him the assistance of

their applause and imitation. What we know of Boscan, indeed, is

principally through the mention made of him by his friends. Garcilaso de

la Vega, superior to his friend as a poet, was one of those gallant

spirits whose existence is a poem, and was closely allied to him in

friendship. It was through Garcilaso's advice and encouragement that

Boscan translated Castiglione's _Libro del Cortigiano_,--a book then

just published, and which enjoyed the highest repute in Italy. The

translation was accompanied by a dedication written by Garcilaso, which

Sedano praises as "an exquisite piece of eloquence," in which he speaks

of his friend with the fond praise which genuine affection inspires.

Several of Garcilaso's sonnets, an epistle, and an elegy, are addressed

to Boscan, and all breathe a mixture of friendship and esteem delightful

to contemplate. He mentions him also in his second eclogue. When

describing the sculpture on a vase of the God of the river Tormes, he

describes don Fernando, duke of Alva, as being depicted among other

heroes of the age, and Boscan, in attendance, as his preceptor. It must

be remembered, that when this elegy was written, the duke was in the

bloom of youth, and regarded as the man of promise of his age; while his

life was yet unstained by the crimes that render him hateful in our

eyes. It is a sage named Severo who is gazing on the urn of old Tormes.

"Next as his looks along the sculptures glanced,

A youth with Phœbus hand in hand advanced;

Courteous his air, from his ingenuous face,

Inform'd with wisdom, modesty, and grace,

And every mild affection, at a scan

The passer-by would mark him for a man,

Perfect in all gentilities of mind

That sweeten life and harmonise mankind.

The form which lively thus the sculptor drew,

Assured Severo in an instant knew,

For him who had by careful culture shown

Fernando's spirit, lovely as his own;

Had given him grace, sincerity, and ease,

The pure politeness that aspires to please,

The candid virtues that disdain pretence,

And martial manliness, and sprightly sense,

With all the generous courtesies enshrined

In the fair temple of Fernando's mind.

When well surveyed his name Severo read,

'Boscan!' whose genius o'er the world is spread,

In whose illumined aspect shines the fire

That, stream'd from Delphos, lights him to the lyre,

And warms those songs which with mankind shall stay

Whilst endless ages roll unfelt away."[12]

Besides Garcilaso, Boscan enjoyed the friendship of a man, far different

in the qualities of his mind, but of high powers of intellect, and of a

noble though arrogant and proud disposition. The epistles in verse that

passed between Boscan and don Diego Hurtado de Mendoza prove the

friendship that subsisted between them, and the esteem in which Boscan

was held; at the same time they present a delightful picture of the

tranquil happiness which the poet enjoyed. Mendoza's epistle is imitated

from Horace; it is written in praise of a tranquil life. At the

conclusion it describes the delights of a rural seclusion, ornamented by

all the charms of nature; and he introduces his friend as enjoying these

in perfection, attended on by his wife, who plucks for him the rarest

grapes and ripe fruit,--the fresh and sweet gifts of summer,--waiting on

him with diligence and joy, proud and happy in her task. Boscan, in his

reply, dilates on the subject, and fills up the picture with a thousand

graces and refinements of feeling drawn from nature, and which coming

warm from the heart, reach our own.

I am tempted to introduce a portion of this epistle. The fault of the

Spaniards in their literature is diffuseness; I have therefore

endeavoured in some degree to compress the rambling of the poet, while I

suppress no sentiment, nor introduce a new idea. Little used to

versification, my translation wants smoothness; but presenting, as it

does, a picture of domestic life, such as was passed at a distant age

and in a distant land, yet resembling so nearly our own notions of the

pleasures of home, I think it cannot fail to interest the reader.

Boscan commences, in imitation of Horace, by commending the tranquillity

enjoyed in a middle station of life. He then goes on to adorn his

canvass with a picture of conjugal attachment and happiness:--

'Tis peace that makes a happy life;[13]

And that is mine through my sweet wife;

Beginning of my soul and end,

I've gain'd new being from this friend,--

She fills each thought, and each desire,

Up to the height I would aspire.

This bliss is never found by ranging;

Regret still springs from saddest changing;

Such loves and their beguiling pleasures,

Are falser still than magic treasures,

Which gleam at eve with golden colour,

And change to ashes ere the morrow.

But now each good that I possess,

Rooted in truth and faithfulness,

Imparts delight to every sense;

For erst they were a mere pretence,

And long before enjoy'd they were,

They changed their smiles to grizly care.

Now pleasures please--love being single--

Evils with its delights ne'er mingle.

My bed's become a place of rest,

Two souls repose on one soft breast;

And still in peace my simple board

Is spread, and tranquil feasts afford.

Before, to eat I scarce was able,

Some harpy hover'd o'er my table,

Spoiling each dish when I would dine,

And mingling gall with gladsome wine

Now the content that foolish I

Still miss'll in my philosophy.

My wife with tender smiles bestows,

And makes me triumph o'er my woes;

While with her finger she effaces

Of my past folly all the traces,

And graving pleasant thoughts instead,

Bids me rejoice that I am wed.

* * * *

And thus, by moderation bounded,

I live by my own goods surrounded.

Among my friends, my table spread

With viands we may eat nor dread;

And at my side my sweetest wife,

Whose gentleness admits no strife,--

Except of jealousy the fear,

Whose soft reproaches more endear.

Our darling children round us gather,

Children who will make me grandfather.

And thus we pass in town our days,

Till the confinement something weighs;

Then to our village haunt we fly,

Taking some pleasant company--

While those we love not never come

Anear our rustic leafy home;

For better 'tis t' philosophise,

And learn a lesson truly wise,

From lowing herd and bleating flock.

Than from some men of vulgar stock;

And rustics, as they hold the plough,

May often good advice bestow.

Of love, too, we may have the joy--

For Phœbus as a shepherd boy

Wander'd once among the clover,

Of some fair shepherdess the lover;

And Venus wept in rustic bower,

Adonis turn'd to purple flower;

And Bacchus midst the mountains derar,

Forgot the pangs of jealous fear;

And nymphs that in the waters play,

('Tis thus that ancient fables say),

And dryads fair among the trees,

Fain the sprightly fawns would please.

So in their footsteps follow we,

My wife and I,--as fond and free,--

Love in our thoughts and in our talk,

Direct we slow our saunt'ring walk,

To some near murm'ring rivulet;

Where 'neath a shady beech we sit,

Hand clasp'd in hand, and side by side,

With some sweet kisses too beside,

Contending there, in combat kind,

Which best can love with constant mind.

As the stream flows among the grass,

Thus life's clear stream with us does pass:

We take no count of day nor night.

While, minist'ring to our delight,

Nightingales all sweetly sing,

And loving doves, with folded wing,

Above our heads are heard to coo;

And far's the ill-betiding crow.

We do not think of cities then.

Nor envy the resorts of men,--

Of Italy, the softer pleasures,

Of Asia too, the golden treasures,

All these are nothing in our eyes;

The while a book beside us lies,

Which tells the tales of olden time,

Of gods and men the hests sublime,--

Æneas' voyage by Virgil told,

Or song divine of Homer old,

Achilles' wrath and all his glory,

Or wandering Ulysses' story,

Propertius too, who well indites,

And the soft plaints Catullus writes;

These will remind me of past grief,

Till, thinking of the sweet relief

My wedded state confers on me,

My bygone 'scapes I careless eye.

O what are all those struggles past,

The fiery pangs which did not last,

Now that I live secure for aye,

In my dear wife's sweet company?

I have no reason to repine--

My joys are her's, and her's are mine;

Our tranquil hearts their feelings share,

And all our pleasures mutual are.

Our eyes drink in the shady light

Of wood, and vale, and grassy height;

We hear the waters as they stray,

And from the mountains wend their way,

Leaping all lightly down the steep,

Till at our feet they murm'ring creep;

And fanning us, the evening breeze,

Plays gamesomely among the trees;

While bleating flocks, as day grows cold,

Gladly seek their shelt'ring fold.

And when the sun is on the hill,

And shadows vast the valleys fill,

And waning day, grown near its close,

Sends tired men to their repose;

We to our villa saunt'ring walk,

And of the things we see we talk,

Our friends come out in gayest cheer,

To welcome us--and fain would hear,

If my sweet wife be tired--and smile--

Inviting us to rest the while.

Then to sup we take our seat,

Our table plentiful and neat,

Our viands without sauces drest,

Good appetite the healthy zest

To fruits we've pluck'd in our own bowers,

And gaily deck'd with od'rous flowers.

And rustic dainties,--many a one.

When this is o'er and supper done,

The evening passes swift along,

In converse gay and sweetest song;

Till slumber, stealing to the eye,

Bids us to our couches hie.

I will not tell what there we do,

Even, dearest friend, to you;

Enough that lovers ever share

Delights when they together are.

Thus our village life we live,

And day by day such joys receive;

Till, to change the homely scene,

Lest it pall while too serene,

To the gay city we remove,

Where other things there are to love;

And graced by novelty we find

The city's concourse to our mind.

While our new coming gives a joy,

Which ever staying might destroy,

We spare all tedious compliment--

Yet courtesy with kind intent,

Which savage tongues alone abuse,

Will often the same language use.

Thus in content we thankful live,

And for one ill for which we grieve,

How much of good our dear home blesses;

Mortals must ever find distresses,

But sorrow loses half its weight--

And every moment has its freight

Of joy--which our dear friends impart,

And with their kindness cheer my heart,

While, never weary us to visit,

They seek our house when we are in it:

If we are out it gives them pain,

And on the morrow come again.

Noble Dural can cure our sadness,

With the infection of his gladness:

Augustin too--well read in pages,

Productions of the ancient sages,

And the romances of our Spain--

Will give us back our smiles again;

While he with a noble gravity,

Adorned by the gentlest suavity,

Recounts us many a tale or fable,

Which well to tell he is most able;

Serious, mingled with jokes and glee,

The which as light and shade agree.

And Monleon, our dearest guest,

Will raise our mirth by many a jest;

For while his laughter rings again,

Can we to echo it refrain?

And other merriment is ours,

To gild with joy the lightsome hours.

But all too trivial would it look,

Written down gravely in a book:

And it is time to say adieu,

Though more I have to write to you.

Another letter this shall tell,

So now, my dearest friend, farewell!

Thus lived Boscan, enjoying all that human nature can conceive of

happiness. One of his tasks, after the lamented death of Garcilaso, was

to collect his poems, and to publish several in a volume with his own.

The date of his death is uncertain: it took place, however, before the

year 1543; so that he died comparatively young. In person he was

handsome; his physiognomy attractive from the mildness and benevolence

it expressed; and his manners distinguished by courtly urbanity and

elegance.

As a poet, he does not rank so high as his friend Garcilaso; he is less

of a poet, less ideal, less harmonious. His chief praise results from

his coming forward as the reformer of Spanish poetry: yet he cannot be

considered an imitator of the Italian style which he introduced. It is

true he adopted from the Italians their versification and subjects; but

nothing can be more essentially different in character and genius. The

tender flow of Petrarch, the inimitable mode in which he concentrates

his ideas, and presents them to us with a precision yet with grace and

ideality, find no competition in Boscan's poems. But there is more

simplicity, more of the nerve of aman; less enthusiasm but a plainer and

completer meaning in the Spaniard. He is less dreamy--to a certain

degree, more common place; but then all is true, heartfelt, and living.

We have not Petrarch's diction. Garcilaso de la Vega approached that

more nearly; but we have a full and earnest truth that carries us along

with it. Take for instance the most perfect of Petrarch's canzone,

"Chiare, fresche e dolci acque,"

and compare it with Boscan's

"Claros y frescos rios,"

written in imitation. The Italian poet invests his love with ideal

imagery that elevates its object into something ethereal and

goddess-like. How graceful, how full of true poetic fire and love's

enthusiasm is that inimitable stanza!--

Still dear to Memory! when, in odorous showers,

Scattering their balmy flowers

To summer airs, th' o'ershadowing branches bow'd,

The while, with humble state,

In all the pomp of tribute sweets she sate,

Wrapt in the roseate cloud!

Now clustering blossoms deck her vesture's hem,

Now her bright tresses gem

(In all that blissful day,

Like burnish'd gold, with orient pearls inwrought):

Some strew the turf, some on the waters float!

Some, fluttering, seem to say,

In wanton circlets tost, "Here Love holds sovereign sway."

Boscan's poem has nothing of the ideal creativeness which sheds a halo

round its object, making one feel as if Laura fed upon different food,

and had limbs of more celestial texture than other women: but Boscan's

sentiments are true to nature. His tenderness is that of a real and

fervent lover; without raising her whom he loves into an angel, he gives

us a lively and most sweet picture of how his heart was spent upon

thoughts of her; and when he tells us that during absence he meditates

on what she is doing, and whether she thinks of him, picturing her

gesture as she laughs, thinking her thought, while his heart tells him

how she may change from gay to sad, now sleeping and now awake, there

is, in the place of the ideal, sincerity,--in place of the wanderings of

fancy, the fixed earnestness of a fond and manly heart.

Boscan imitated Horace as well as Petrarch. In the epistle from which a

passage has been quoted, he abides by the unornamented style of the

Latin poet; but he wants his terseness, his epigrammatic turns, his keen

observation. His poem is descriptive, and sweetly so, of the best state

of man,--that of a happy marriage; but while he presents a faithful

picture of its tranquil virtuous pleasures, and imparts the deep serene

joy of his own heart, his hues are not stolen from the rainbow, nor his

music from the spheres: it is all calm, earthly, unidealised, though not

unimpassioned.

One fault Boscan possesses in common with almost all other Spanish

poets--he cannot compress: he runs on, one idea suggesting another, one

line the one to follow in artless unconstrained flow; but his poetry

wants concentration and energy. You read with pleasure, and follow the

meanders of his thoughts; they are not wild, but they are desultory; and

we are never startled as when reading Petrarch, by the rising, as it

were, amidst melodious sounds, of some structure of ideal and surpassing

beauty, which makes you pause, imbibe the whole conception of the poet,

and exclaim, This is perfection!

[Footnote 11: Widen's Life of Garcilaso de la Vega: who gives us

translations of some very pleasing Latin verses by Navagero.]

[Footnote 12: Wiffen's translation of Garcilaso's poems.]

[Footnote 13: Y asi yo por seguir aquesta via,

heme casado con una muger

que es principio y fin del alma mia.

Esta me ha dado luego un nuevo ser,

con tal felicidad que me sostiene

llena la voluntad y el entender.

Esta me hace ver que ella conviene

á mi, y las otras no me convenian;

á esta tengo yo, y ella me tiene.

En mi las otras iban y venian,

y a poder de mudanzas a montones

de mi puro dolor se mantenian.

Eran ya para mi sus galardones

como tesoros por encantamientos,

que luego se volvian en carbones.

Ahora son bienes que en mi siento

firmes, macizos, con verdad fundados,

y sabrosos en todo el sentimiento.

Solian mis placeres dar cuidados

y al tiempo que llegaban a gustarse

ya llegaban a mi casi dañados.

Ahora el bien es bien para gozarse,

y el placer es lo que es, que siempre place,

y el mal ya con el bien no ha de juntarse.

Al satisfecho todo satisface

y asi tambien a mi por lo que he hecho

quanto quiero y deseo se me hace.

el campo que era de batalla el lecho

ya es lecho para mí de paz durable

dos almas hay conformes en un pecho.

La mesa en otro tiempo abominable

y el triste pan que en ella yo comia,

y el vino que bebía lamentable:

infestandome siempre alguna harpia

que en mitad del deleyte mi vianda

con amargos potages envolvia.

Ahora el casto amor acude y manda

que todo se me haga muy sabroso,

andando siempre todo como anda.

De manera, Señor, que aquel reposo

que nunca alcance yo por mi ventura

con mi filosofar triste y penoso,

Una sola muger me le asegura,

y en perfeta sazon me da en las manos

vitoria general de mi tristura.

y aquellos pensamientos mios tan vanos

ella los va borrando con el dedo,

y escribe en lugar de ellos otros sanos.

* * * *

Dejenme estar contento entre mis cosas

comiendo en compañia mansamente

comidas que no sean sospechosas.

Conmigo y mi muger sabrosamente

esté, y alguna vez me pida celos

con tal que me los pida blandamente.

Comamos y bebamos sin recelos

la mesa de muchachos rodeada;

muchachos che nos hagan ser abuelos.

Pasarémos asi nuestra jornada

ahora en la ciudad, ahora en la Aldea,

porque la vida esté mas descansada.

Quando pesada la Ciudad nos sea

irémos al Lugar con la compaña

A donde el importuno no nos vea.

Alli se vivira con menos maña,

y no habrá el hombre tanto guardarse

del malo o del grosero que os engaña.

Alli podrá mejor filosafarse,

con los bueyes y cabras y ovejas

que con los que del vulgo han de tratarse.

Alli no serán malas las consejas

que contarán los simples labradores

viniendo de arrastrar las duras rejas.

¿Será pues malo alli tratar de amores

Viendo que Apolo con su gentileza

Anduvo enamorado entre pastores?

¿ y Venus no se vió en grande estrecheza

por Adonis vagando entre los prados?

según la antigüedad asi lo reza?

¿ y Baco no sintió fuertes cuidados

por la cuitada que quedó durmiendo

en mitad de los montes despoblados?

Las ninas por las aguas pareciendo,

y entre las arboledas las Driadas

se ven con los Faunos rebullendo.

Nosotros seguiremos sus pisadas;

digo yo y mi muger, nos andaremos

tratando alli las cosas namoradas.

A do corra algun rio nos iremos,

y a la sombra de alguna verde haya

a do estemos mejor nos sentaremos.

Tenderme ha alli la alda de su saya

y en regalos de amor habrá porfia

qual de entrambos hará mas alta raya.

El rio correrá por do es su via

nosotros correremos por la nuestra

sin pensar en el noche ni en la dia.

El ruiseñor nos cantara a la diestra

y vendrá sin el cuerbo la paloma

haciendo a su venida alegre muestra.

No tendremos envidia al que está en Roma

ni a los tesoros de los Asianos,

ni a quanto por acá de la India asoma.

Tendrémos nuestros libros en las manos

y no se cansaran de andar contando

los hechos celestiales y mundanos

Virgilio a Eneas estará cantando,

y Homero el corazón de Aquiles fiero,

y el navigar de Ulises rodeando.

Propercio vendrá alli por compañero

el qual dirá con dulces armonias

del arte que a su Cintia amo primero.

Catulo acudirá por otras vias,

y llorando de Lesbia los amores

sus trampas llorará y chocarrerias.

Esto me advertirá de mis dolores--

pero volviendo a mi placer presente

tendrè mis escarmientos por mejores.

Ganancia sacaré del accidente

que otro tiempo mi sentir turbava

trayendome perdido entre la gente.

¿ Que haré de acordarme qual estaba

viendome qual estoy, que estoy seguro

de nunca mas pasar lo que pasaba?

En mi fuerte estaré dentro en mi muro

sin locura de amor ni fantasia

que mi pueda vencer con su conjuro.

Como digo estarè en mi compañia

en todo me hara el camino llano

su alegria mezclando con la mia.

Su mano me dara dentro en mi mano,

y acudirán deleytes y blanduras

de un sano corazón en otro sano.

Los ojos holgarán con las verduras

de los montes y prados que verémos

y con las sombras de las espesuras.

El correr de las aguas oiremos

y su blando venir por las montañas

que a su paso vendrán donde estaremos

El ayre moverá las verdes cañas

y volveran entornes los ganados

balando por llegar á sus cabañas.

En esto ya que el sol por los collados

sus largas sombras andara encumbrando,

enviando reposo a los cansados,

nosotros nos irémos paseando

acia al lugar do está nuestra morada,

en cosas que veremos platicando.

La compaña saldrá regocijáda

a tomarnos entonces con gran fiesta

diciendo a mi muger si está cansada.

Veremos al entrar le mesa puesta,

y todo en buen concepto aparejado

como es uso de casa bien compuesta.

Despues que un poco habremos reposado

sin ver bullir, andar yendo y viniendo,

y a cenar non habremos asentado.

Nuestros mozos vendrán alli trayendo

viandas naturales y gustosas

que nuestro gusto esten todo moviendo.

Frutas pondrán maduras y sabrosas

por nosotros las mas de ellas cogidas,

embueltas en mil flores olorosas.

Las natas por los platas estendidas

acudirán y el blanco requeson,

y otras que dan cabras paridas.

Despues de esto vendrá el tierno lechon

con el conejo gordo, y gazapito,

y aquellos pollos que de pasto son.

vendrá también alli el nuevo cabrito

que a su madre jamas habrá seguido

por el tiempo de tierno y de chiquito.

Despues que todo esto haza venido,

y que nosotros descansadamente

en nuestra cena hayamos bien comido,

pasaremos la noche dulcemente

hasta venir el tiempo que la gana

del dormir toma al hombre comunmente.

Lo que desde este tiempo alla mañana

pasare, pase ahora sin contarse,

pues no cura mi pluma de ser vana:

basta saver que dos que tanto amarse

pudieron, no podran hallar momento

en que puedan dejar siempre de holgarse.

Pero tornando a proseguir el cuento,

nuestro vivir será de vida entera

viviendo en el aldea como cuento.

Tras esto ya que el corazón se quiera

desenfadar con variar la vida

tornando nuevo gusto en su manera,

a la ciudad será nuestra partida

a donde todo nos será placiente

con el nuevo placer de la venida.

Holgarèmos entones con la gente,

y con la novedad de haber llegado

trataremos con todos blandamente.

Y el cumplimiento que es siempre pesado

a lo menos aquel que de ser vano,

no es menos enojoso que escusado;

Alaballe estará muy en la mano,

y decir que por solo el cumplimiento

se conserva en el mundo el trato humano.

Nuestro vivir asi estará contento,

y alcanzaremos mil ratos gozosos

en recompensa de un desabrimiento.

Y aunque a veces no faltan enojos,

todavia entre nuestros conocidos

dulces serán mas y los sabrosos.

Pues ya con los amigos mas queridos

que será el alborozo y el placer

y el bullicio de ser recien venidos.

Que será el nunca hartarnos de nos ver,

y el buscarnos cada hora y cada punto

y el pesar de buscarse sin se ver.

Mosen Dural alli estera muy junto,

haciendo con su trato y su nobleza

sobre nuestro placer el contrapunto.

Y con su buen burlar y su llaneza

no sufrirà un momento tan ruin

que en nuestro gran placer muestre tristeza.

No faltera Geronimo Augustin

con su saber sabroso y agradable,

no menos que en romance en el latin:

el qual con gravidad mansa y tratable

Contando cosa bien por el notadas,

nuestro buen conversar hará durable.

Las burlas andaran por el mezeladas

con las veras asi con tal razon

que unas de otras serán bien ayudadas.

En esto acudira el buen Monleon

con el qual todos mucho holgarèmos,

y nosotros y quantos con el son.

El nos dirá, y nosotros gustaremos,

el reira, y hara que nos riamos,

Y en esto enfadarse ha de quanto harémos.

Otras cosa habrá que las callamos,

porque tan buenas son para hacerse

que pierden el valor si las hablamos.

Pero tiempo es en fin de recogerse,

porque haya mas para otro mensagero,

que si mi cuenta no ha de deshacerse

no será, y os prometo, este el postrero."]