even now in your understanding you are judging me as bold and rash,
since with the little intellect and less experience which the rustic
life, in which I have been nurtured for some time, can promise, I am
willing to hold a contest in a matter so difficult as this with the
famous Thyrsis, whose nurture in famous academies, and whose profound
studies, can assure naught to my pretensions save certain failure.
But confident that at times the force of natural genius, adorned with
some little experience, is wont to discover new paths with which one
makes easy sciences acquired during long years, I wish to make bold
to-day to show in public the reasons which have moved me to be such
an enemy to love, that I had deserved thereby to gain the appellation
of loveless; and though nothing else would have moved me to do this,
save your behest, I would not excuse myself from doing it; all the more
that the glory will not be slight which I have to gain hereby, though
I should lose in the enterprise, since after all fame will say that I
had the spirit to compete with the renowned Thyrsis. And so on this
understanding, without wishing to be favoured except by the reason
that I have on my side, it alone do I invoke and pray to give such
strength to my words and arguments that there may appear in both of
them the reason I have for being such an enemy to love as I proclaim.
Love, then, as I have heard my elders say, is a desire for beauty; and
this definition, amongst many others, those give it that have advanced
farthest in this question. Then, if it be granted me, that love is
desire for beauty, it must necessarily be granted me that such as is
the beauty which is loved, will be the love with which it is loved.
And because beauty is of two kinds, corporeal and incorporeal, the
love which loves corporeal beauty for its ultimate goal, such a love
as this cannot be good, and this is the love whose enemy I am; but as
corporeal beauty is divided likewise into two parts, namely into living
bodies and dead bodies, there can also be a love of corporeal beauty
which may be good. The one part of corporeal beauty is shown in living
bodies of men and women, and this consists in all the parts of the body
being good in themselves, and all together making one perfect whole,
and forming a body proportioned in limbs and in pleasantness of hue.
The other beauty of the corporeal part which is not alive, consists in
pictures, statues and buildings; which beauty can be loved without the
love with which it is loved being blameworthy. Incorporeal beauty is
divided also into two parts, the virtues and the sciences of the soul;
and the love which cleaves to virtue must necessarily be good, and
likewise that which cleaves to virtuous sciences and agreeable studies.
Then, as these two kinds of beauty are the cause which begets love in
our breasts, it follows that whether love be good or bad, depends upon
loving the one or the other: but, as incorporeal beauty is viewed with
the pure and clear eyes of the understanding, and corporeal beauty is
regarded with the corporeal eyes, clouded and blind, in comparison with
the incorporeal, and as the eyes of the body are quicker to regard the
present corporeal beauty which pleases, than those of the understanding
to view the absent incorporeal beauty which glorifies, it follows that
mortals more usually love the fading and mortal beauty which destroys
them than the rare and divine beauty which makes them better. Then
from this love, or from desiring corporeal beauty, have arisen, arise,
and will arise in the world desolation of cities, ruin of states,
destruction of empires, and deaths of friends; and when this, as is
generally the case, does not happen, what greater woes, what more
grievous torments, what fire, what jealousy, what pains, what deaths,
can the human understanding imagine which can be compared to those the
wretched lover suffers? And the cause of this is that, as the lover's
whole happiness depends upon enjoying the beauty he desires, and this
beauty cannot be possessed and enjoyed fully, that inability to reach
the goal which is desired, begets in him sighs, tears, complaints,
and dejection. It is manifest and clear then that it is true that
the beauty of which I speak, cannot be enjoyed perfectly and fully,
because it is not in the power of man to enjoy completely a thing which
is outside of him and not wholly his; because external things, it is
well known, are always under the control of that which we call fortune
or chance, and not in the power of our free-will, and so it results
that where there is love there is sorrow; and he who would deny this,
would likewise deny that the sun is bright and that fire burns. But
that we may come the more easily to the knowledge of the bitterness
that love contains, the truth I follow will be clearly seen by running
over the passions of the mind. The passions of the mind, as you know
best, discreet gentlemen and shepherds, are four universal ones, and
no more. Immoderate desire, much joy, great fear for future miseries,
great sorrow for present calamities; these passions, being, as it were,
contrary winds which disturb the tranquillity of the soul, are called
by a more appropriate term disturbances; and of these disturbances
the first is proper to love, since love is nothing else save desire;
and so desire is the beginning and origin of all our passions, from
which they issue as every stream from its source. Hence it comes that
every time desire for something is kindled in our hearts, straightway
it moves us to follow it and seek it, and in seeking it and following
it, it leads us to a thousand disordered ends. This desire it is which
incites the brother to seek his beloved sister's abominable embraces,
the stepmother her step-son's, and what is worst, the very father his
own daughter's; this desire it is that bears our thoughts to grievous
perils. Nor does it avail that we oppose it with the reason, for,
though we clearly recognise our hurt, we cannot, on that account,
withdraw from it; and love does not content itself with keeping us
intent on one wish, but rather, as from the desire of things all the
passions arise, as has already been said, so from the first desire that
arises in us, a thousand others are derived; and these are in lovers
no less various than infinite, and though they well-nigh always look
to one goal only, yet, as the objects are various, and various the
fortune of those in love with each, without any doubt desire takes
various forms. There are some who, to reach the attainment of what they
desire, put all their strength on one course, in which, alas, what
great hardships are encountered, how often they fall, what sharp thorns
torture their feet, and how often strength and breath are lost before
they attain what they seek! There are some others who are possessors
of the thing beloved, and neither desire nor think of aught else save
to remain in that state, and, having their thoughts busied about this
alone, and on this alone spending all their toil and time, are wretched
amidst happiness, poor amidst wealth, and unfortunate amidst good
fortune. Others who are no longer in possession of their treasure,
seek to return to it, employing for the purpose a thousand prayers, a
thousand promises, a thousand conditions, countless tears, and at last,
busying themselves with these woes, they bring themselves to the pass
of losing their life. But these torments are not seen at the entry of
the first desires, for then deceitful love shows us a path whereby we
may enter, in appearance broad and spacious, which afterwards gradually
closes in in such a manner that no way offers itself to return or go
forward; and so the wretched lovers, deceived and betrayed by a sweet
and false smile, by a mere turn of the eye, by two stammered words
which beget in their breasts a false and feeble hope, dash straightway
to go after it, goaded by desire, and afterwards, in a short space and
in a few days, finding the path of their cure closed, and the way of
their pleasure obstructed, turn to bedew their faces with tears, to
disturb the air with sighs, to weary the ears with woeful complaints;
and the worst is, that if perchance with their tears, their sighs,
and their complaints they cannot come to the goal of their desire,
straightway they change their manner and seek to attain by bad means
what they cannot by good. Hence arise hatreds, angers, deaths as well
of friends as of enemies. For this cause it has been seen and is seen
at every moment that tender and delicate women set themselves to do
things so strange and rash that even to imagine them inspires terror.
Therefore the holy marriage-bed is seen bathed in crimson blood, now of
the sad unheeding wife, now of the incautious and careless husband. To
come to the goal of this desire brother is traitor to brother, father
to son, and friend to friend. It originates feuds, tramples on respect,
transgresses laws, forgets duties, and seduces kinswomen. But in order
that it may be clearly seen how great the misery of lovers is, it is
already known that no appetite has such strength in us, nor carries us
with such force to the object in view as that which is urged on by the
spurs of love. Hence it comes that no happiness or contentment passes
so much beyond the due bounds as that of the lover when he comes to
attain any one of the things he desires; and this is evident, for what
person of judgment will there be, save the lover, who will reckon his
highest joy a touch of his mistress's hand, a little ring of hers, a
short loving glance, and other similar things of as small account as
a dispassionate understanding holds them? And not by reason of these
abundant pleasures which lovers in their judgment gain, must it be
said that they are happy and fortunate; for there is no contentment
of theirs that does not come accompanied by innumerable displeasures
and disgusts, wherewith love dilutes them and disturbs them, and never
did amorous glory reach the pitch reached and attained by pain. So
evil is the happiness of lovers that it draws them out of themselves,
making them careless and foolish; for, as they set their whole intent
and strength to maintain themselves in that pleasant state they fancy
themselves to be in, they neglect everything else, whereby no small
harm overtakes them, as well of property, as of honour and life. Then,
in exchange for what I have said, they even make themselves slaves of a
thousand pangs, and enemies of themselves. What then, when it happens
that, in the midst of the course of their pleasures, the cold steel
of the heavy lance of jealousy touches them? Then the sky is darkened
for them, the air is disturbed, and all the elements turn against
them. Then they have nothing from which to hope for contentment,
since the attainment of the end they desire cannot give it them. Then
appear ceaseless dread, unfailing despair, sharp suspicions, varying
thoughts, care without gain, false laughter and true sorrow, with a
thousand other strange and terrible sensations which consume them and
affright them. All the actions of the beloved object distress them,
if she looks, if she laughs, if she turns away or comes back, if she
is silent, if she speaks; and in a word all the graces that moved him
to love well, are the very ones which torture the jealous lover. And
who does not know that if fortune does not favour with full hands the
beginnings of love and with speedy diligence lead them to a sweet end,
how costly to the lover are any other means the luckless one employs to
attain his purpose? What tears he sheds, what sighs he scatters, how
many letters he writes, how many nights he does not sleep, how many and
what contrary thoughts assail him, how many suspicions distress him
and fears surprise him? Is there by chance a Tantalus who feels more
distress, set between the waters and the apple-tree, than that which
the wretched lover feels placed between fear and hope? The services
of the lover out of favour are the pitchers of Danaus's daughters,
drained so fruitlessly that they never come to attain the least part of
their purpose. Is there eagle that so destroys the bowels of Tityus as
jealousy destroys and gnaws those of the jealous lover? Is there rock
that weighs down so much the shoulders of Sisyphus as love unceasingly
weighs down the thoughts of those in love? Is there wheel of Ixion
that more quickly turns and torments than the quick varying fancies of
irresolute lovers? Is there a Minos or Rhadamanthus who so punishes and
oppresses the luckless condemned souls as love punishes and oppresses
the loving breast which is subject to his unendurable power? There is
not a cruel Megæra, nor raging Tisiphone, nor avenging Alecto, who so
illtreat the soul in which they enclose themselves, as this fury, this
desire, illtreats those hapless ones who recognise it as lord, and bow
before it as vassals, who, to give some excuse for the follies they
commit, say--or at least the ancient heathens said--that that instinct
which incites and moves the lover to love another's life more than his
own, was a god, to whom they gave the name of Cupid, and so, being
constrained by his godhead, they could not fail to follow and go after
what he willed. They were moved to say this, and to give the name of
god to this desire by seeing the supernatural effects it produces in
lovers. Without doubt it seems a supernatural thing for a lover at
the same moment to be timorous and confident, to burn away from his
beloved and grow cold when nearer her, to be dumb when speaking much,
and speaking much when dumb. It is likewise a strange thing to follow
one who shuns me, to praise one who reproaches me, to utter words to
one who does not listen to me, to serve an ungrateful one, and to hope
in one who never promises nor can give aught that is good. Oh bitter
sweetness, oh poisonous medicine of sick lovers, oh sad joy, oh flower
of love, that dost indicate no fruit, save that of tardy repentance!
These are the effects of this fancied god, these are his deeds and
wondrous works; and indeed it can also be seen in the picture by which
they represented this vain god of theirs, how vainly they acted; they
painted him as a boy, naked, winged, his eyes bandaged, with bow and
arrows in his hands, to give us to understand, amongst other things,
that, when a man is in love, he assumes again the character of a simple
and capricious boy, who is blind in his aims, light in his thoughts,
cruel in his deeds, naked and poor in the riches of the understanding.
They said likewise that amongst his arrows he had two, the one of lead
and the other of gold, with which he produced different effects; for
the leaden one begot hatred in the breasts it touched, and the golden
one increase of love in those it wounded, merely to tell us that it
is rich gold that causes love, and poor lead abhorrence. And for this
reason poets do not sing in vain of Atalanta vanquished by three lovely
golden apples; and of fair Danae, made pregnant by the golden rain;
and of pious Æneas descending to hell with the golden branch in his
hand; in a word, gold and gifts are one of the strongest arrows which
love has; and the one with which he subdues most hearts; quite the
contrary to the one of lead, a metal low and despised, as poverty is,
which rather begets hatred and abhorrence where it comes, than any kind
of benevolence. But if the reasons spoken by me so far do not suffice
to persuade you of the reason I have for being on bad terms with this
treacherous love, which I am discussing to-day, observe its effects in
some true examples from the past, and you will see, as I see, that he
who does not attain to the truth I follow does not see nor has he eyes
of understanding. Let us see then--what but this love is it which made
righteous Lot break his chaste purpose and violate his own daughters?
This it is without doubt that made the chosen David be an adulterer and
a murderer; that forced the lustful Ammon to seek the infamous embraces
of Tamar, his beloved sister; that placed the head of mighty Samson in
the traitorous lap of Delilah, whereby he lost his strength, his people
lost their protection, and at last he and many others their lives. This
it was that moved Herod's tongue to promise to the dancing girl the
head of the Fore-runner of Life; this makes one doubt of the salvation
of the wisest and richest king of kings, and even of all mankind. This
brought down the strong arms of famous Hercules, accustomed to wield
the weighty club, to turn a tiny spindle and to busy themselves in
feminine tasks. This made the raging and loving Medea scatter through
the air the tender limbs of her little brother; this cut out the
tongue of Procne, Arachne and Hippolytus, made Pasiphae infamous,
destroyed Troy, and slew Ægisthus. This caused the works of new
Carthage once begun to be stayed, and her first queen to pierce her
chaste breast with a sharp sword. This placed in the hands of the fair
and famous Sophonisba, the vial of deadly poison which ended her life.
This robbed valiant Turnus of life, Tarquin of kingdom, Mark Antony of
power, and his mistress of life and honour. This finally handed our
Spain over to the barbarous fury of the children of Hagar, called to
avenge the disordered love of the wretched Roderick. But, because I
think that night will cover us with its shade before I finish bringing
to your memory the examples that offer themselves to mine, of the
exploits that love has performed, and is performing every day in the
world, I do not wish to go on with them, nor yet with the discourse I
have begun, in order to give an opportunity for the famous Thyrsis to
reply to me, begging you first, gentlemen, not to be wearied by hearing
a song which I composed some days ago in reproach of this my foe. If I
remember rightly, it runs in this way:
No fear have I before the frost and fire,
The bow and arrows of the tyrant Love,
And so I needs must sing in his dispraise;
For who shall fear a blind boy whose desire
Varies, whose judgment doth inconstant rove,
Although he threaten wounds and sad decays?
My pleasure doth increase, his worth decays,
When I employ my tongue
To utter the true song
Which in reproach of Love himself I form,
So rich in truth, in manner, and in form,
That unto all Love's malice it reveals,
And clearly doth inform
The world of the sure hurt that Love conceals.
Love is a fire that burns the soul within,
A frost that freezes; dart that opes the breast,
Which heedeth not its cunning manifold;
A troubled sea where calm hath ne'er been seen;
Wrath's minister; enemy manifest,
In guise of friend; father of dismay cold;
Giver of scanty good and ill untold;
Caressing; full of lies;
Fierce in his tyrannies;
A traitorous Circe that transforms us all
To divers monstrous shapes fantastical
Wherefrom no power of man can us restore,
Though quickly at our call
Comes reason's light, to what we were before,
A yoke that doth the proudest neck abase;
A mark to which desires of slothful ease,
Born without reason, go as to their goal;
A treacherous net, which men of highest place
Amidst their foul and unclean sins doth seize
And doth within its subtle mesh enthrall;
A pleasing ill that tempts the senses all;
Poison in guise of pill,
Gilded, but poison still;
A bolt that burns and cleaves where it descendeth;
An angry arm that traitorously offendeth;
Headsman that dooms the thought which captive lies,
Or which itself defendeth
From the sweet charm of his false fantasies;
A hurt that doth in the beginning please,
When on an object which doth seem as fair
As the fair heavens above, the sight doth feast--
And yet the more it looks with yearning gaze,
The more the heart doth suffer everywhere,
The heart that is with anguish sore distressed--
Dumb speaker; chatterer with dumbness oppressed;
A wise man babbling folly;
Ruin that slayeth wholly;
The life which joyous harmony doth fill;
Shadow of good that is transformed to ill;
A flight that raiseth us to Heaven on high,
Only that grief may still
Live after we have fallen, and pleasure die;
A thief unseen that doth destroy us quite,
And robs us of our wealth with ruthless hand,
Carrying our souls away at every hour;
A speed that overtakes the quickest flight;
A riddle none there is to understand;
A life that always is in peril sore;
A chosen, and, withal, a chance-born war;
A truce that is but brief;
Beloved, luckless grief;
Promise that never doth to fruitage come;
Illness that makes within the soul its home;
Coward that upon evil rusheth bold;
Debtor that doth the sum
He owes, which is our due, ever withhold;
A labyrinth wherein is nestling found
A fierce wild beast that doth itself sustain
On the surrendered hearts of all mankind;
A bond wherewith the lives of all are bound;
A lord that from his steward seeks to gain
Account of deed and word, and of his mind;
Greed, unto countless varied aims inclined;
A worm that builds a house,
Wretched or beauteous,
Where for a little while it dwells and dies;
A sigh that never knows for what it sighs;
A cloud that darkens all our faculties;
A knife that wounds us--this
Is Love, him follow, if ye think it wise.'
With this song the loveless Lenio ended his reasoning, leaving some
of those that were present full of wonder at both, especially the
gentlemen, for it seemed to them that what Lenio had said seemed of
more worth than was usual with a shepherd's intellect. And with great
desire and attention they were awaiting Thyrsis's reply, all promising
themselves in fancy that it would without any doubt excel Lenio's, for
Thyrsis exceeded him in age and experience, and in the studies most
generally pursued, and this likewise reassured them, for they desired
that Lenio's loveless opinion should not prevail. It is indeed true
that the hapless Teolinda, the loving Leonarda, the fair Rosaura, and
even the lady who came with Darinto and his companion, clearly saw
depicted in Lenio's discourse a thousand points of the course of their
loves; and this was when he came to treat of tears and sighs, and of
how dearly the joys of love were bought. Only the fair Galatea and
the discreet Florisa did not count in this, for up till then love had
not taken count of their fair rebellious breasts, and so they were
eager only to hear the acuteness with which the two famous shepherds
disputed, without seeing in their free will any of the effects of love
they were hearing of. But Thyrsis's will being to reduce to better
limits the loveless shepherds opinion, without waiting to be asked, the
minds of the bystanders hanging on his lips, he set himself in front of
Lenio, and with agreeable and elevated tone began to speak in this wise:
THYRSIS. 'If the acuteness of your fair intellect, loveless shepherd,
did not assure me that with ease it can attain the truth, from which
it finds itself so far at present, rather than put myself to the
trouble of contradicting your opinion, I would leave you in it, as a
punishment for your unjust words. But because those you have uttered
in blame of love show me the good germs you possess by which you may
be brought to a better purpose, I do not wish by my silence to leave
those who hear us scandalised, love despised, and you pertinacious
and vainglorious; and so, being aided by Love on whom I call, I think
in a few words to show how different are his works and effects from
those you have declared about him, speaking only of the love you mean,
which you defined when you said that it was a desire for beauty, and
likewise declared what beauty was, and a little later you closely
examined all the effects which the love of which you speak produced in
loving breasts, finally strengthening your views with various unhappy
events caused by love. And though the definition you made of love may
be the one most generally given, yet it is not so much so but that it
may be contradicted; for love and desire are two different things,
since not everything that is loved is desired, nor everything that is
desired loved. The reasoning is clear in the case of all things that
are possessed, for then it cannot be said that they are desired, but
that they are loved: thus, he who has health will not say that he
desires health, but that he loves it; and he who has children cannot
say that he desires children, but that he loves his children; nor yet
can it be said of the things that are desired that they are loved,
as of the death of enemies, which is desired and not loved. And so
for this reason love and desire come to be different passions of the
will. The truth is that love is the father of desire, and amongst
other definitions which are given of love this is one. Love is that
first change which we feel caused in our mind by the appetite which
moves us and draws us to itself, delighting and pleasing us; and that
pleasure begets motion in the soul, which motion is called desire,
and, in short, desire is a motion of the appetite in regard to what
is loved, and a wish for that which is possessed, and its object is
happiness. And as there are found different species of desires, and
love is a species of desire which looks to and regards the happiness
which is called fair, yet for a clearer definition and division of
love it must be understood that it is divided into three kinds, chaste
love, useful love, and delectable love. And to these three forms of
love are reduced all the kinds of loving and desiring that can exist
in our will: for the chaste love regards the things of Heaven, eternal
and divine; the useful, the things of earth, full of joy and doomed
to perish, such as wealth, powers, and lordships; the delectable,
things giving delight and pleasure, as the living corporeal beauties of
which you, Lenio, spoke. And each form of these loves of which I have
spoken ought not to be blamed by any tongue, for the chaste love ever
was, is and must be spotless, simple, pure and divine, finding rest
and repose in God alone. Profitable love, being, as it is, natural,
ought not to be condemned, still less the delectable, for it is more
natural than the profitable. That these two forms of love are natural
in us, experience shows us, for as soon as our daring first parent
transgressed the divine commandment, and from lord was made a servant,
and from freeman a slave, straightway he knew the misery into which he
had fallen, and the poverty in which he was. And so he at once took
the leaves of trees to cover him, and sweated and toiled, breaking
the earth to sustain himself, and to live with the least discomfort
possible; and thereafter, obeying his God therein better than in aught
else, he sought to have children, and in them to perpetuate and delight
the human race. And as by his disobedience death entered into him, and
through him into all his descendants, so we inherit at the same time
all his affections and passions, as we inherit his very nature; and as
he sought to remedy his necessity and poverty, so we cannot fail to
seek and desire to remedy ours. And hence springs the love we have for
things useful to human life; and the more we gain of them, the more it
seems to us we remedy our want. And by the same reasoning we inherit
the desire of perpetuating ourselves in our children; and from this
desire follows that, which we have, to enjoy living corporeal beauty,
as the only true means which lead such desires to a happy end. So that
this delectable love, alone and without mixture of any other accident,
is worthy rather of praise than of blame. And this is the love, which
you, Lenio, hold for enemy; and the cause is that you do not understand
it, nor know it, for you have never seen it alone, and in its own
shape, but always accompanied by pernicious, lascivious and ill-placed
desires. And this is not the fault of love, which is always good, but
of the accidents which come to it; as we see happening in some copious
stream, that has its birth from some clear and limpid spring, which
is ever supplying to it clear cool waters, and a little while after
it leaves its stainless mother, its sweet and crystalline waters are
changed to bitter and turbid, by reason of the many stained brooks,
which join it on either side. Hence this first motion, love or desire
as you would call it, cannot arise except from a good beginning; and
truly among good beginnings is the knowledge of beauty, which, once
recognised as such, it seems well-nigh impossible to avoid loving.
And beauty has such power to move our minds, that it alone caused the
ancient philosophers (blind and without the light of faith to guide
them), led by natural reason, and attracted by the beauty they beheld
in the starry heavens, and in the mechanism and roundness of the earth,
marvelling at such harmony and beauty, to pursue investigations with
the understanding, making a ladder by these second causes to reach the
first cause of causes; and they recognised that there was one only
beginning without beginning of all things. But that which made them
wonder most and raise their thoughts, was to see the frame of man so
well-ordered, so perfect and so beautiful, that they came to call him a
world in little; and so it is true that in all the works made by God's
steward, Nature, nothing is of such excellence, nor reveals more the
greatness and wisdom of its Maker. For in the form and frame of man is
summed up and enclosed the beauty which is distributed in all the other
parts of it; and hence it arises that this beauty, when recognised, is
loved, and as all beauty displays itself most and is most resplendent
in the face, as soon as a beautiful face is seen, it summons and draws
the will to love it.
'Hence it follows that as the faces of women so much excel in beauty
those of men, it is they who are the more loved, served and courted by
us, as the object in which dwells the beauty that is naturally more
pleasing to our sight. But our Maker and Creator, seeing that it is
the proper nature of our soul to be for ever in perpetual motion and
desire, for it cannot find rest save in God, as in its proper centre,
willed, so that it might not rush with loosened rein to desire things
empty and doomed to perish, and this without taking from it the liberty
of free-will, to set over its three powers an alert sentinel, who
should warn it against the dangers that opposed it and the enemies
that persecuted it; this was reason, which corrects and curbs our
inordinate desires. And seeing likewise that human beauty must needs
draw after it our passions and inclinations, while it did not seem good
to Him to take away from us this desire, at least He wished to temper
it and correct it, ordaining the holy yoke of matrimony, beneath which
most of the natural joys and pleasures of love are lawful and fitting
for man and woman. By these two remedies imposed by the divine hand
comes to be tempered the excess there can be in the natural love which
you, Lenio, blame, which love is of itself so good that if it were
lacking in us, the world and we would end. In this very love of which
I am speaking are summed up all the virtues, for love is moderation,
since the lover, according to the chaste wish of the beloved object,
tempers his own; it is fortitude, for the lover can endure any
adversity for the love of the one who loves him; it is justice, for
with it he serves her who loves well, reason itself forcing him to
it; it is prudence, for love is adorned with all wisdom. But I ask
you, oh Lenio, you who have said that love is the cause of the ruin
of empires, of the destruction of cities, of the deaths of friends,
of sacrileges committed, the deviser of treasons, the transgressor of
laws--I ask you, I say, to tell me, what praiseworthy thing there is
to-day in the world, however good it be, the use of which cannot be
changed into evil. Let philosophy be condemned, for often it discovers
our faults, and many philosophers have been wicked; let the works of
the heroic poets be burned, for with their satires and verses they
reprehend vices; let medicine be blamed, for men discover poisons; let
eloquence be called useless, for at times it has been so arrogant that
it has placed in doubt the recognised truth; let not arms be forged,
for robbers and murderers use them; let not houses be built, for they
can fall upon the inhabitants; let variety of victuals be prohibited,
for they are wont to be a cause of illness; let no one seek to have
children, for Œdipus, driven by cruellest madness, slew his father,
and Orestes smote the breast of his own mother; let fire be counted
evil, for it is wont to burn houses and to consume cities; let water
be despised, for with it all the earth was flooded; in a word, let
all elements be condemned, for they can be perversely used by some
perverse persons. And in this manner every good thing can be changed
to evil, and from it can proceed evil effects, if placed in the hands
of those who, as irrational beings, allow themselves to be governed by
the appetite, without moderation. The ancient Carthage, rival of the
Roman Empire, warlike Numantia, Corinth made so fair, proud Thebes,
and learned Athens, and God's city Jerusalem, which were conquered and
laid desolate--are we to say therefore that love was the cause of their
destruction and ruin? Hence those who are accustomed to speak ill of
love, ought to speak ill of their own selves, for the gifts of love, if
they are used with moderation, are worthy of perpetual praise; since
in everything the mean was always praised, or the extreme was blamed,
for if we embrace virtue beyond what suffices, the wise man will win
the name of fool, and the just of iniquitous. It was the opinion of
the ancient tragedian Chremes, that, as wine mixed with water is
good, so love, when moderate, is profitable, but it is the contrary
when immoderate; the generation of rational animals and brutes would
be naught if it did not proceed from love, and if it were wanting on
earth, the latter would be deserted and empty. The ancients believed
that love was the work of the gods, given for the preservation and
care of mankind. But, coming to what you, Lenio, said of the sad and
strange effects which love produces in loving breasts, keeping them
ever in ceaseless tears, deep sighs, despairing fancies, without ever
granting them an hour of repose--let us see perchance what thing can
be desired in this life the attainment of which does not cost fatigue
and toil; and the more valuable a thing is, the more one must suffer
and does suffer for it. For desire presupposes a lack of the desired
object, and until it is gained there must needs be disturbance in our
mind. If then all human desires, without wholly attaining what they
desire, can be rewarded and contented with a part of it being given
them, and with all this it is compatible to follow them, how strange
it is that to attain what cannot satisfy nor content the desire save
with itself, one should suffer, weep, fear and hope? He who desires
lordships, commands, honours, and riches, since he sees that he cannot
reach the highest rank he would wish, when he succeeds in settling in
some good position, is partly satisfied, for the hope which fails him
of not being able to ascend further, makes him stop where he can, and
where best he can. All this is the contrary in love, for love has no
other reward nor satisfaction save love itself, and love itself is its
own true reward; and for this reason it is impossible for the lover
to be content till he clearly knows that he is truly loved, being
assured of this by the loving tokens which they know. And so they value
highly a pleasing glance, a pledge of any sort from their beloved, a
trivial smile, or word, or jest they take for truth, as signs which
are assuring them of the reward they desire; and so, whenever they see
tokens contrary thereto, the lover is constrained to lament and grieve,
without having moderation in his sorrows, since he cannot have it in
his joys, when kind fortune and gentle love grant them to him. And, as
it is a task of such difficulty to bring another's will to be one with
mine, and to unite two souls in a knot and bond so indissoluble that
the thoughts of the two may be one and all their deeds one, it is not
strange that to achieve so lofty a purpose one should suffer more than
for aught else, since, after it is achieved, it satisfies and gladdens
beyond all things that are desired in this life. Not always are the
tears of lovers shed with cause and reason, nor their sighs scattered,
for if all their tears and sighs were caused by seeing that their wish
is not responded to as is due, and with the reward that is sought for,
it would be necessary to consider first whither they raised their
fancy, and if they exalted it higher than their merit attains, it is no
wonder that, like some new Icarus, they fall consumed into the river of
miseries; and for these love will not incur the blame, but their folly.
With all this I do not deny, but affirm that the desire of gaining
what is loved, must needs cause affliction, by reason of the want it
presupposes, as I have already said at other times; but I also say that
to attain it gives the greatest pleasure and happiness, like rest to
the weary and health to the sick. Together with this I acknowledge that
if lovers marked, as in the ancient custom, with white and black stones
their sad or happy days, without any doubt the unhappy would be more;
but I also recognise that the quality of one white stone alone would
excel the quantity of countless black ones. And for a proof of this
truth we see that lovers never repent of being lovers, nay, rather, if
anyone should promise them to deliver them from love's disease, they
would repel him as an enemy; for even to suffer it is pleasant to them;
and therefore, oh lovers, let no fear prevent you from offering and
dedicating yourselves to love what should seem to you most difficult,
nor complain, nor repent, if you have raised things lowly to your
height, for love makes the little equal to the sublime, the lesser to
the greater; and with just resolve it tempers the various dispositions
of lovers, when with pure affection they receive its grace in their
hearts. Yield not to dangers, that the glory may be so great as to take
away the feeling of every sorrow; and, as for the captains and emperors
of old, as a reward for their toils and fatigues, triumphs were
prepared according to the greatness of their victories, so for lovers
are reserved a multitude of pleasures and joys; and as with the former
their glorious reception made them forget all their past troubles and
griefs, so with the lover, when beloved by the beloved, his dreadful
dreams, his uncertain sleep, his waking nights, his restless days are
turned to highest peace and happiness. Hence, Lenio, if you condemn
them for their sad effects, you should acquit them for their pleasing
and happy ones. And as for the interpretation you gave of Cupid's form,
I am going to say that you are almost as wrong in it as in the other
things you have said against love. For to picture him a boy, blind,
naked, with wings and arrows, means nothing but that the lover must be
a boy in not having a double character, but one pure and simple; he
must be blind to every other object that might offer itself to him,
save that which he has already been able to see and yield to, naked
because he must have naught save what belongs to her he loves, having
wings of swiftness to be ready for all that may be commanded him on her
part, while he is depicted with arrows, for the wound of the loving
breast must needs be deep and hidden, and that scarce may be disclosed
save to the very cause that is to cure it. That love should strike
with two arrows which operate in different ways, is to show us that in
perfect love there must be no mean between loving and not loving at
the same moment, but that the lover must love whole-heartedly without
any admixture of lukewarmness. Finally, Lenio, this love it is which,
if it destroyed the Trojans, made the Greeks great; if it caused the
works of Carthage to cease, it caused the buildings of Rome to grow; if
it took away the kingdom from Tarquin, it brought back the republic to
freedom. Though I might here adduce many examples opposed to those I
have adduced of the _good_ effects love causes, I do not wish to busy
myself with them, since they are so well known of themselves. I only
wish to ask you to be disposed to believe what I have shown and to
have patience to hear a song of mine which seems as if it was composed
in rivalry of yours; and if by it and by what I have said to you, you
should not be willing to be brought over to love's side, and it should
seem to you that you are not satisfied of the truths I have declared
concerning it, if the present time permits it, or at any other you
might choose and indicate, I promise you to satisfy all the replies and
arguments you might wish to express in opposition to mine; and, for the
present, attend to me and listen:
Come, issue from the pure and loving breast,
Sonorous voice, and let thy tones of pride
Sing of the lofty marvels done by Love,
So that the thought that freest is and best,
May be content thereby and satisfied,
Though 'tis but hearsay that the thought doth move.
Sweet Love, that canst thy lofty marvels prove,
If thou wilt, by my tongue,
Grant unto it such grace,
That glory, joy and praise,
For telling who thou art, reward my song;
For, if thou aidest me, as I surmise,
Thy worth, in rapid flight
To Heaven's height, we see with mine arise.
'Tis Love that is beginning of our bliss;
The means whereby one winneth and attaineth
The happiest end that anyone doth seek;
Unequalled master of all sciences:
A fire, that, though a breast ice cold remaineth,
Into bright flames of virtue makes it break;
A power that wounds the strong and helps the weak;
A root from which is born
The lucky plant whereby
We rise to Heaven on high,
With fruitage, that doth unto pleasure turn
The soul, of goodness, worth, and noble zeal,
Of bliss without alloy,
That earth with joy, and Heaven with love doth fill;
Courteous and gallant, wise, discreet is he;
Gay, liberal-handed, gentle, rich in might;
Of piercing glance, although blind be his eyes;
True guardian of respect and modesty;
A captain who doth triumph in the fight,
But honour only claimeth as his prize;
A flower that doth 'midst thorns and brambles rise,
Which life and soul adorns;
An enemy of fear;
Of hope a friend so near;
A guest that gladdens most when he returns;
An instrument of honoured wealth, I trow,
Whereby one seeth thrive
The honoured ivy on the honoured brow;
A natural instinct that doth move us all
To raise the thoughts within our minds so high
That scarce thereto doth human sight attain:
A ladder which he that is bold doth scale
To the sweet region of the hallowed sky;
Ridge at its summit fair, smooth as a plain;
An easiness that makes the intricate plain;
Pole-star that in this sea
Of madness guides the thought
That from sense strayeth not;
A solace of the sorrowing fantasy;
Godfather who doth never seek our harm;
A beacon not concealed
That hath revealed the haven 'midst the storm;
A painter that doth in our souls portray,
With shadows and with tints full of repose,
Now mortal, now immortal, loveliness;
A sun that driveth all the clouds away;
A pleasure that brings sweetness in our woes;
A glass wherein one sees the kindliness
Of nature, that doth crown with high success
True generosity;
A fiery spirit bright,
That even to the blindest bringeth light;
Of hatred and of fear sole remedy;
Argus that ne'er can tempted be to nod,
Although within his ear
The words he hear of some deceiving god;
An army of well-armèd infantry
That countless difficulties puts to flight,
And ever wins the victory and the palm;
A dwelling where abideth jollity;
A face that never hides the truth from sight,
But shows what is within the soul; a balm
Whose power the tempest changeth to sweet calm.
Merely because some day
We hope to have it sure;
A comfort that doth cure
Him who is scorned, when life doth pass away;
Finally Love is life, 'tis glory, gladness,
'Tis joyful peace and sweet;
Follow his feet; to follow him is gladness.'
The end of the reasoning and song of Thyrsis was the beginning to
confirm anew in all the reputation he had for discretion, save in the
loveless Lenio, to whom his reply did not seem so good as to satisfy
his understanding, and change him from his first purpose. This was
clearly seen, for he was already giving signs of wishing to answer
and reply to Thyrsis, had not the praises Darinto and his companion,
and all the shepherds and shepherdesses present were giving the two,
prevented it; for Darinto's friend, taking his hand, said:
'I have just at this moment learnt how the power and wisdom of love
extends over every part of the earth; and that the place where it is
most refined and purified is in shepherds' breasts, as has been shown
to us by what we have heard from the loveless Lenio and the discreet
Thyrsis, whose reasonings and arguments savour more of intellects
nurtured amidst books and lecture-rooms, than of those that have grown
up amidst thatched huts. But I would not be so astonished thereat, if I
were of the opinion of him who said that the knowledge of our souls was
to remember what they already knew, presupposing that they are all born
instructed. But when I see that I ought to follow the other and better
view of him who affirmed that our soul was as it were a blank canvas,
which had nothing painted on it, I cannot fail to wonder at seeing how
it has been possible, in the company of sheep, in the solitude of the
fields, for one to be able to acquire sciences, concerning which it
is scarcely possible to hold disputes in renowned universities; if,
indeed, I do not wish to be persuaded of what I said at first, that
love extends through all, and communicates itself to all, raising the
fallen, giving wisdom to the simple, and making perfect the wise.'
'If you knew, sir,' replied Elicio at this moment, 'how the upbringing
of the renowned Thyrsis has not been amidst trees and forests, as you
fancy, but in royal courts and well-known schools, you would not wonder
at what he has said, but at what he has left unsaid; and although the
loveless Lenio in his humility has confessed that the rusticity of his
life can promise but slight pledges of intellect, nevertheless I assure
you that he spent the choicest years of his life, not in the pursuit
of tending goats on the hills, but on the banks of the clear Tormes in
laudable studies and discreet converse. So that if the colloquy the two
have held seems to you of more worth than one of shepherds, consider
them as they were, and not as they now are; all the more so that you
will find shepherds on these banks of ours, who will not cause you less
wonder if you hear them, than those you have heard now. For on them
are grazing their flocks the famous and well-known Franio, Siralvo,
Filardo, Silvano, Lisardo and the two Matuntos, father and son,
excelling beyond all excellence, one on the lyre, the other in poetry;
and, to crown all, turn your eyes and know the well-known Damon, whom
you have before you, where your desire can rest if it wishes to know
the extreme of discretion and wisdom.'
The gentleman was about to reply to Elicio, when one of those ladies
who came with him said to the other:
'It seems to me, señora Nisida, that since the sun is now setting it
would be well for us to go, if we are to reach to-morrow the spot where
they say our father is.'
The lady had scarcely said this, when Darinto and his companion looked
at her, showing that it had grieved them that she had called the other
by her name. But when Elicio heard the name of Nisida, the thought
struck him whether it was that Nisida of whom the hermit Silerio had
related so many things, and the same idea came to Thyrsis, Damon and
Erastro. And Elicio, to assure himself of what he suspected, said:
'A few days ago, señor Darinto, I and some of us who are here heard
the name of Nisida mentioned, as has been done by that lady now, but
accompanied by more tears and referred to with more alarm.'
'Is there perchance,' replied Darinto, 'any shepherdess on these banks
of yours called Nisida?'
'No,' replied Elicio; 'but she whom I speak of was born on them, and
was nurtured on the remote banks of the famous Sebeto.'
'What is it you say, shepherd?' rejoined the other gentleman.
'What you hear,' replied Elicio, 'and what you will hear at greater
length, if you assure me of a suspicion I have.'
'Tell it me,' said the gentleman, 'for it might be that I shall satisfy
you therein.'
To this Elicio replied: 'Is your own name, sir, perchance Timbrio?'
'I cannot deny that truth to you,' replied the other, 'for I am called
Timbrio, which name I had fain concealed till another more fitting
season; but the wish I have to know why you suspected that I was so
called, constrains me to conceal naught from you of what you might wish
to know of me.'
'Accordingly you will not deny to me either,' said Elicio, 'that this
lady you have with you is called Nisida, and further, so far as I can
guess, the other is called Blanca, and is her sister.'
'In all you have hit the mark,' replied Timbrio; 'but since I have
denied to you nothing of what you have asked me, do not you deny me the
reason that has moved you to ask it me.'
'It is as good, and will be as much to your taste,' replied Elicio, 'as
you will see before many hours.'
All those who did not know what the hermit Silerio had said to Elicio,
Thyrsis, Damon and Erastro, were confounded, hearing what was passing
between Timbrio and Elicio. But at this moment Damon said, turning to
Elicio:
'Do not keep back, oh Elicio, the good tidings you can give to Timbrio.'
'And I, too,' said Erastro, 'shall not delay a moment in going to give
to the hapless Silerio those of the finding of Timbrio.'
'Holy Heavens! O, what is it I hear!' said Timbrio; 'and what is it
you say, shepherd? Is that Silerio you have named perchance he who is
my true friend, he who is the half of my life, he whom I desire to see
more than aught else that desire could ask of me? Free me from this
doubt at once, so may your flocks increase and multiply, in such a
manner that all the neighbouring herdsmen may bear you envy.'
'Do not distress yourself so much, Timbrio,' said Damon, 'for the
Silerio that Erastro speaks of is the same that you speak of, and the
one who desires more to know of your life than to sustain and lengthen
his own; for after you departed from Naples, as he has told us, he has
felt your absence so much, that the pain of it, with that which other
losses he related to us caused him, has brought him to the pass that,
in a small hermitage, a little less than a league distant from here, he
leads the straitest life imaginable, with the determination of awaiting
death there, since he could not be satisfied by learning how your life
had prospered. This we know for sure, Thyrsis, Elicio, Erastro, and I;
for he himself has told us of the friendship he had with you, with all
the story of the events that happened to both, until fortune by such
strange accidents parted you, to set him apart to live in a solitude so
strange, that it will cause you wonder when you see him.'
'May I see him, and may straightway come the last end of my days,' said
Timbrio; 'and so I pray you, famous shepherds, by that courtesy which
dwells in your breasts, to satisfy this breast of mine, by telling me
where is that hermitage where Silerio is living.'
'Where he is dying, you had better say,' said Erastro, 'but
henceforward he will live with the news of your coming; and since you
so much desire his pleasure and yours, arise and let us go, for before
the sun sets I will set you with Silerio; but it must be on condition
that on the way you tell us all that has happened to you since you
departed from Naples, for with all the rest up to that point some of
those present are acquainted.'
'Small payment you ask of me,' replied Timbrio, 'for so great a thing
as you offer me; for I do not say that I will tell you this, but all
that you might wish to learn of me and more.' And, turning to the
ladies who came with him, he said to them: 'Since with so good a cause,
dear lady Nisida, the motive we had not to utter our own names has been
destroyed, with the joy that the good news they have given us demands,
I ask you that we should not delay, but that we should go forthwith
to see Silerio, to whom you and I owe our lives and the happiness we
possess.'
'It is needless, señor Timbrio,' replied Nisida, 'for you to ask me to
do a thing I desire so much, and the doing of which suits me so well;
let us go, and may good luck attend us, for now every moment that I
delay in seeing him, will be to me an age.'
The same said the other lady, who was her sister Blanca, the same
that Silerio had spoken of, and the one who gave the greatest signs
of happiness. Darinto alone, at the news of Silerio, assumed such an
attitude that he did not move his lips, but with a strange silence
arose, and bade a servant of his bring him the horse on which he
had come there; without taking leave of any one, he mounted it, and
turning the reins went away from all at a gallop. When Timbrio saw
this, he mounted another horse and with much haste followed Darinto
until he overtook him; and seizing hold of the horse's reins, he made
him stand still, and remained there talking with him a good while, at
the end of which Timbrio returned to where the shepherds were, and
Darinto pursued his journey, sending to excuse himself by Timbrio for
having departed without taking leave of them. In the meantime Galatea,
Rosaura, Teolinda, Leonarda, and Florisa went up to the fair Nisida and
Blanca; and the discreet Nisida told them in a few words of the great
friendship there was between Timbrio and Silerio, with a great part
of the events they had passed through. But with Timbrio's return all
wished to set themselves on the road for Silerio's hermitage, had not
at the same moment a fair young shepherdess, some fifteen years of age,
come to the spring, with her wallet on her shoulder and her crook in
her hand. And when she saw so pleasing a company, she said to them with
tears in her eyes:
'If perchance there is among you, gentlemen, one who has any knowledge
of the strange effects and accidents of love, and whose breast tears
and loving sights are wont to make tender, let him who feels this
hasten to see if it is possible to heal and check the most loving tears
and deep sighs that ever issued from love-sick eyes and breasts; hasten
then, shepherds, to do what I ask you and you will see how when you
observe what I show you I prove my words true.'
And in saying this she turned her back, and all who were there followed
her. The shepherdess, seeing then that they followed her, with hasty
step entered in among some trees which were on one side of the spring;
and she had not gone far, when turning to those who were coming after
her, she said to them:
'You see there, sirs, the cause of my tears, for that shepherd
who appears there is a brother of mine, who for the sake of that
shepherdess before whom he is bent on his knees, without any doubt will
leave his life in the hands of her cruelty.'
All turned their eyes to the spot the shepherdess indicated, and saw
that at the foot of a green willow a shepherdess was leaning, dressed
like a huntress nymph, with a rich quiver hanging at her side, and a
curved bow in her hands, her beauteous ruddy locks bound together with
a green garland. The shepherd was before her on his knees, with a rope
cast round his throat and an unsheathed knife in his right hand, and
with his left he had seized the shepherdess by a white scarf, which
she wore over her dress. The shepherdess showed a frown on her face,
and that she was displeased that the shepherd should detain her there
by force; but when she saw that they were looking at her, with great
earnestness she sought to free herself from the hand of the hapless
shepherd, who with abundance of tender tears and loving words was
begging her at least to give him opportunity that he might be able
to indicate to her the pain he suffered for her; but the scornful
and angry shepherdess went away from him at the very moment all the
shepherds came so near that they heard the love-sick youth addressing
the shepherdess in such wise:
'Oh ungrateful and heedless Gelasia, with how just a title you have won
the name you have of cruel! Turn your eyes, hard-hearted one, to behold
him who, from beholding you, is in the extremest grief imaginable. Why
do you flee from him who follows you? Why do you not welcome him who
serves you? And why do you loathe him who adores you? You, who are
without reason my foe, hard as a lofty cliff, angry as a wounded snake,
deaf as a dumb forest, scornful as boorish, boorish as fierce, fierce
as a tiger, a tiger that feeds on my entrails! Will it be possible for
my tears not to soften you, for my sighs not to rouse your pity, for my
services not to move you? Yes, it will be possible; since my brief and
ill-starred lot wishes it, and yet it will also be possible for you not
to wish to tighten this noose I have at my throat, nor to plunge this
knife through this heart that adores you. Turn, shepherdess, turn, and
end the tragedy of my wretched life, since with such ease you can make
fast this rope at my throat, or make bloody this knife in my breast.'
These and other like words the hapless shepherd uttered, accompanied
by sobs and tears so many that they moved to compassion as many as
heard him. But the cruel and loveless shepherdess did not therefore
cease to pursue her way, without wishing even to turn her eyes to
behold the shepherd, who, for her sake, was in such a state; whereat
all those who perceived her angry disdain were not a little astonished,
and it was so great that even the loveless Lenio thought ill of the
shepherdess's cruelty. And so he with the old Arsindo went up to ask
her to be so good as to turn and hear the plaints of the love-sick
youth, even though she should have no intention of healing them. But it
was not possible to change her from her purpose, rather she asked them
not to count her discourteous in not doing what they bade her; for her
intention was to be the mortal enemy of love and of all lovers, for
many reasons which moved her to it, and one of them was that from her
childhood she had dedicated herself to follow the pursuit of the chaste
Diana, adding to these so many reasons for not doing the bidding of the
shepherds that Arsindo held it for good to leave her and return. The
loveless Lenio did not do this, and when he saw that the shepherdess
was such an enemy of love as she seemed, and that she agreed so
completely with his loveless disposition, he determined to know who
she was, and to follow her company for some days; and so he told her
how he was the greatest enemy love and lovers had, begging her that
since they agreed so much in their opinions, she would be so kind as
not to be wearied with his company which would not be hers longer than
she pleased. The shepherdess rejoiced to learn Lenio's intention, and
permitted him to come with her to her village, which was two leagues
from Lenio's. Therewith Lenio took leave of Arsindo, begging him to
excuse him to all his friends and to tell them the reason that had
moved him to go with the shepherdess, and without waiting further, he
and Gelasia went away quickly and in a short while disappeared. When
Arsindo returned to tell what had passed with the shepherdess, he found
that all the shepherds had gone up to console the love-sick shepherd,
and that, as for the two of the three veiled shepherdesses, one had
fainted in the fair Galatea's lap, and the other was in the embrace of
the beauteous Rosaura, who likewise had her face covered. She who was
with Galatea was Teolinda, and the other her sister Leonarda, whose
hearts, as soon as they saw the despairing shepherd whom they found
with Gelasia, were overwhelmed with a jealous and love-sick faintness,
for Leonarda believed the shepherd was her beloved Galercio, and
Teolinda counted it truth that he was her enamoured Artidoro; and when
the two saw him so subdued and undone by the cruel Gelasia, they felt
such grief in soul that all senseless they fell fainting, one into
Galatea's lap, the other into Rosaura's arms. But a little while after
Leonarda, coming to herself, said to Rosaura:
'Alas, my lady, I verily believe that fortune has occupied all the
passes of my cure, since Galercio's will is so far from being mine,
as can be seen by the words that shepherd has spoken to the loveless
Gelasia; for I would have you know, lady, that that is he who has
stolen my freedom, nay he who is to end my days.'
Rosaura was astonished at what Leonarda was saying; and was more so
when, Teolinda also having come to herself, she and Galatea called her,
and, all joining Florisa and Leonarda, Teolinda said that that shepherd
was her longed-for Artidoro; but scarcely had she named him, when her
sister replied to her that she was deceived, for it was none but his
brother Galercio:
'Ah, traitorous Leonarda,' replied Teolinda, 'does it not suffice you
that you have once parted me from my bliss, without wishing, now that I
find it, to say that it is yours? Then undeceive yourself, for in this
I do not deem you a sister, but an open foe.'
'Without doubt you deceive yourself, sister,' replied Leonarda, 'and I
do not wonder, for into this same error all the people of our village
fell, believing that this shepherd was Artidoro, until they clearly
came to understand that it was none but his brother Galercio, for they
resemble each other as much as we do; and indeed, if there can be
greater likeness, they have a greater likeness.'
'I will not believe it,' replied Teolinda, 'for, though we are so
much alike, these miracles are not so easily found in nature; and so
I would have you know that so long as experience does not make me
more certain of the truth than your words make me, I do not think of
ceasing to believe that that shepherd I see there, is Artidoro; and if
anything could make me doubt it, it is that I do not think that from
the disposition and constancy I have known in Artidoro, it can be hoped
or feared that he has made a change so soon and forgets me.'
'Calm yourselves, shepherdesses,' then said Rosaura, 'for I will free
you soon from that doubt in which you are.'
And leaving them she went to where the shepherd was giving to the
shepherds account of Gelasia's strange disposition and of the wrongs
she did him. At his side the shepherd had the fair little shepherdess
who said he was her brother, whom Rosaura called, and, withdrawing with
her to one side, she begged and prayed her to tell her what her brother
was called, and if she had any other like him. To this the shepherdess
replied that he was called Galercio, and that she had another called
Artidoro, who was so like him that they could scarcely be distinguished
save by some mark in their dress, or by the organ of the voice, which
differed somewhat. She asked her also what Artidoro had been doing. The
shepherdess answered her that he was on some mountains some distance
from there, grazing part of Grisaldo's flock with another herd of goats
of his own, and that he had never been willing to enter the village,
or to hold converse with any one, since he had come from the banks of
Henares; and together with these she gave her such other details that
Rosaura was satisfied that the shepherd was not Artidoro, but Galercio,
as Leonarda had said and that shepherdess said, whose name she learned
was Maurisa. And taking her with her to where Galatea and the other
shepherdesses were, she related again in the presence of Teolinda and
Leonarda all she knew of Artidoro and Galercio, whereat Teolinda was
soothed and Leonarda ill content, seeing how indisposed Galercio's mind
was to think of her affairs. In the discourses the shepherdesses were
holding, it chanced that Leonarda called the veiled Rosaura by her
name, and Maurisa, hearing it, said:
'If I do not deceive myself, lady, my coming here and my brother's has
been on your account.'
'In what way?' said Rosaura.
'I will tell it you, if you give me leave to tell it you alone,'
replied the shepherdess.
'Willingly,' answered Rosaura, and the shepherdess going aside with
her, said to her:
'Without any doubt, fair lady, it is to you and to the shepherdess
Galatea that my brother and I come with a message from our master
Grisaldo.'
'That is the case,' replied Rosaura, and calling Galatea, both listened
to what Maurisa said from Grisaldo, which was to inform them that he
would come in two days with two friends of his, to take her to his
aunt's house, where they would in secret celebrate their nuptials,
and together with this she gave to Galatea on behalf of Grisaldo some
rich golden trinkets, by way of thanks for the willingness she had
shown to entertain Rosaura. Rosaura and Galatea thanked Maurisa for
the good news, and in reward for it the discreet Galatea wished to
share with her the present Grisaldo had sent her, but Maurisa would in
no way accept it. Then Galatea began again to ask information about
the strange likeness there was between Galercio and Artidoro. All the
time Galatea and Rosaura spent in talking to Maurisa, Teolinda and
Leonarda occupied in looking at Galercio, for, Teolinda's eyes feasting
on Galercio's face which resembled Artidoro's so much, she could not
withdraw them from looking; and as those of the love-sick Leonarda knew
on what they were looking, it was also impossible for her to turn them
elsewhere. By this time the shepherds had consoled Galercio, though,
for the ill he suffered, he counted every counsel and consolation
vain and needless, all of which redounded to Leonarda's hurt. Rosaura
and Galatea, seeing that the shepherds were coming towards them, bade
Maurisa farewell, telling her to tell Grisaldo that Rosaura would be in
Galatea's house. Maurisa took leave of them, and calling her brother,
told him in secret what had passed with Rosaura and Galatea; and so
with fair courtesy he took leave of them and of the shepherds and with
his sister returned to his village. But the love-sick sisters Teolinda
and Leonarda, who saw that when Galercio went, the light of their eyes
and the life of their life went from them, both together approached
Galatea and Rosaura and asked them to give them leave to follow
Galercio, Teolinda giving as excuse that Galercio would tell her where
Artidoro was, and Leonarda that it might be that Galercio's will would
change, seeing the obligation in which he was to her. The shepherdesses
granted them leave on the condition that Galatea had before begged of
Teolinda that she should inform her of all her good or ill fortune.
Teolinda repeated her promise again, and again taking her leave,
followed the way Galercio and Maurisa were pursuing. The same was
done forthwith, though in a different direction, by Timbrio, Thyrsis,
Damon, Orompo, Crisio, Marsilio, and Orfenio, who went their way to
the hermitage of Silerio with the fair sisters Nisida and Blanca,
having first all taken leave of the venerable Aurelio and of Galatea,
Rosaura and Florisa, and also of Elicio and Erastro, who did not wish
to fail to go back with Galatea, Aurelio offering that on coming to his
village, he would go straightway with Elicio and Erastro to seek them
at Silerio's hermitage, and would bring something with which to make
good the lack of means Silerio would have to entertain such guests.
With this understanding they went away, some in one direction and some
in another, and missing the old Arsindo at the leave-taking, they saw
that, without taking leave of any one, he was going in the distance
by the same way Galercio and Maurisa and the veiled shepherdesses
were pursuing, whereat they wondered; and seeing that now the sun was
hastening his course to enter by the gates of the west, they did not
wish to delay there further, in order to come to the village before the
shades of night. Elicio and Erastro then, seeing themselves before the
lady of their thoughts, in order to show somewhat that which they could
not conceal, and to lighten the fatigue of the way, and also to fulfil
the bidding of Florisa, who bade them sing something whilst they were
going to the village, to the sound of Florisa's pipe began, Elicio to
sing and Erastro to reply in this wise:
ELICIO.
Whoso would fain the greatest beauty find
That was, or is, or shall be on the earth,
The fire and crucible, where are refined
White chastity and purest zeal, all worth,
Being, and understanding of the mind,
A Heaven that in the world had its new birth,
Loftiness joined in one with courtesy,
Let him approach my shepherdess to see.
ERASTRO.
Let him approach my shepherdess to see,
Whoso would tell the peoples of the sight
That he hath seen, a sun whose radiancy
The day illumined, than the sun more bright;
How with her fire she chilleth, this can be
Made known, and how the soul she sets alight
Which touched by her fair flashing eyes has been,
That naught is left to see when they are seen.
ELICIO.
That naught is left to see when they are seen,
This truth full well my wearied eyes do know,
Eyes that unto my hurt so fair have been,
The chief occasion of my bitter woe:
I saw them, and I saw my soul therein
Burning, the spoils of all its powers aglow,
Yielding in sweet surrender to their flame,
Which doth me summon, banish, freeze, inflame.
ERASTRO.
She doth me summon, banish, freeze, inflame,
She, the sweet enemy unto my glory,
From whose illustrious life and being fame
Can weave a strange, and yet a truthful story:
Her eyes alone, wherein Love sets his claim
To power, and all his winsomeness before ye,
Present a theme to raise to Heaven's height
A quill from any wing of lowly flight.
ELICIO.
A quill from any wing of lowly flight,
If it would wish unto the sky to rise,
The courtesy must sing, the zeal for right,
Of this rare phœnix, peerless 'neath the skies,
Our age's glory, and the world's delight,
Of the clear Tagus and its bank the prize,
Unequalled wisdom hers, and beauty rare,
Nature achieved her highest work in her.
ERASTRO.
Nature achieved her highest work in her,
In her the thought hath equal been to the art,
In her both worth and grace united were,
Which in all other maids are found apart,
In her humility and greatness share
Together side by side the self-same part,
In her Love hath his nest and dwelling made,
And yet my foe hath been the thankless maid.
ELICIO.
And yet my foe hath been the thankless maid,
Who would, and could, and should at once my thought
That wanders free, hold fast, if but the aid
Of one of her gossamer locks she sought;
Though I within the narrow noose am laid,
My capture is with so much pleasure fraught,
That foot and neck I stretch out to the chain,
Sweet is the name I call my bitter pain.
ERASTRO.
Sweet is the name I call my bitter pain,
Short is the life and full of misery
Of the sad soul my frame doth scarce sustain,
And sustenance doth scarce to it supply,
To my brief hope that it the crown should gain
Of faith, fortune once promised bounteously;
What pleasure, good or glory doth he know,
Where hope diminisheth and faith doth grow?
ELICIO.
Where hope diminisheth and faith doth grow,
There one can see and know the lofty aims
That loyal love proclaims; for he whose thought
Hath confidence but sought in love so pure,
Of a reward secure and certain is,
Which shall with truest bliss his soul delight.
ERASTRO.
The wretched suffering wight, whom illness swayeth
And with cruel anguish slayeth, is contented,
When he is most tormented by his grief,
With any small relief, though soon 'tis gone:
But when more dull hath grown at last the pain,
He calls on health, and fain would have it sound.
Not otherwise is found the tender breast
Of the lover oppressed with grievous sadness,
Who says his pain doth gladness find herein,
In that the light serene of the fair eyes
To which as spoil and prize he gave his days,
Should on him truly gaze or feignedly;
Soon as love sets him free and makes him strong,
He seeks with clamorous tongue more than before.
ELICIO.
Now the fair sun sinks o'er the hill to rest,
The growing gloom doth, best of friends, invite
Us to repose, the night is drawing nigh.
ERASTRO.
The village draweth nigh, for rest I long.
ELICIO.
Let us put silence to our wonted song.
Those who were listening to Elicio and Erastro would have held it a
good thing that the way should be prolonged in order to enjoy more
the agreeable song of the love-sick shepherds; but the closing-in of
night and their coming to the village caused them to cease from it, and
Aurelio, Galatea, Rosaura, and Florisa to betake themselves to their
house. Elicio and Erastro likewise went to theirs, with the intention
of going forthwith to where Thyrsis and Damon and the other shepherds
were, for so it was agreed between them and Galatea's father. They
were only waiting until the white moon should banish the darkness of
the night; and as soon as she showed her fair face, they went to seek
Aurelio, and all together made their way towards the hermitage, where
there happened to them what will be seen in the following book.