pastors' company honor,
joining your sweet voice to the rural muse of a desert,
here you fully do find the strange operation of love—
how love runs to the woods, as well as rides to the palace.65
Neither he bears reverence to a prince nor pity to beggar,
but (like a point in midst of a circle) is still of a nearness,
all to a lesson he draws, neither hills nor caves can avoid him.
Zelmane:
Worthy shepherd, by my song to myself all favor is happened
that to the sacred muse66 my annoys somewhat be revealed—
sacred muse, who in one contains what nine do in all of them.
But ô so happy be you, who safe from fiery reflection
of Phoebus’ violence in shade of sweet Cyparissus67
or pleasant myrtle may teach the unfortunate Echo
in these wood to resound the renowned name of a goddess.
Happy are you who may to the saint—your only Idea68—
although simply attired, utter your manly69 affection.
Happy be those mishaps, which justly proportion holding,
give right sound unto the ears, and enter aright to the judgment.
But wretchèd be souls who’re veiled in a contrary subject.
How much the more we love, so much our loves are less beloved.
What skill can cure a sore—an infirmity—wrongly judged?
What can justice avail to a man who tells not his own case?
You, though fears do abash, in you still possible hopes be.
We do seem to rebel against nature, but are fools in a vain suit.
And so—unheard, condemned, kept from where we do seek to abide,
self-lost in wand’ring, banished from where we do come from—
what means is there, alas, we can hope our loss to recover?
What place is there left, we may hope our woes to recomfort?
Unto the heavens? Our wings be too short. Earth thinks us a burden.
Air we do still with sighs increase. To the fire? We do want none.
And yet its outward heat our tears would quench, but an inward
fire no liquor can cool. Neptune’s realm would not avail us.
Happy shepherd, with thanks to the gods, still think to be thankful
that to thy advancement their wisdoms have thee abased.
Dorus:
Unto the gods with a thankful heart all thanks I do render
that to my advancement their wisdoms have me abased.
But yet, alas! O but yet alas! Our haps be but hard haps
which must frame contempt to the fittest purchase of honor.
Well may a shepherd complain, but his plaints are not esteemed.
Silly shepherd’s poor pipe, when its harsh sound testifies anguish.
Into the fair looker-on, pas-time (not pass-i-on) enters.
And those who make such dreary recital to the woods or brooks—
what be the pangs they bear, and whence are those pangs derived?
Pleased by rebounding answer to receive that name of echo,
they may hope thereby to ease their inward horrible anguish,
when trees dance to the pipe, and swift streams pause from the music,
or when, unmoved, an echo begins to sing them a love song.
Say then, what vantage do we get by the trade of a pastor?
Since no estates be so base, but love vouchsafeth his arrow,
since no refuge doth serve from wounds we do carry about us,
since outward pleasures be but halting helps to decayed souls,
far more happy be you whose greatness gets a free access,
whose fair bodily gifts are framed most lovely to each eye.
Virtue you have, of virtue you have left proof to the whole world,
and virtue is grateful with beauty and richness adorned.
Neither doubt you a whit, time will your passion utter.
Hardly remains fire hid, where skill is bent to the hiding,
but in a mind that would his flames should not be repressed,
nature worketh enough with a small help for the revealing.
Give therefore to the muse great praise in whose very likeness
you do approach to the fruit your only desires be to gather.
Zelmane:
First shall fertile grounds not yield increase of a good seed,
first the rivers shall cease to repay their floods to the ocean,
first may a trusty greyhound transform himself to a tiger,
first shall virtue be vice, and beauty be counted a blemish,
ere that with song of praise I cease her praise to solemnize—
her praise, whence to the world all praise has its only beginning.
But yet well I do find each man most wise in his own case.
None can speak of a wound with skill, if he have not a wound felt.
To you my state seems great. By my judgment, your state is blessed.
And yet, neither of us, great or blessed, has regard for himself,
because—weigh this, alas!—great is not great to the greater.70
What, judge you, does a hillock show by the lofty Olympus?
Such my minute greatness does seem, compared to the greatest.
When cedars to the ground fall down by the weight of
