 | Il pastor fido |  |
Scene 1.
Mirtillo.O spring, the gentle childhood of the yeare,
Mother of floures, fresh hearbs, & fresh desires,
Thou turn'st againe, but with thee do not turne
The happie dayes of my delightfull ioyes:
Thou turnst, thou turnst, but with thee turnst nought else
Saue of the losse of my deare trusures lorne,
The miserable wretched memorie.
Thou art the same thou wert, so fresh, so faire,
But I am not as I was wont to be,
So deare to other eyes. Oh bitter sweets of loue,
Much worser t'is to leese you once possest,
Then neuer to haue you enioy'd at all,
Much like the griefe to chaunge a happie state,
The memorie of any good that wasts,
Consumes it selfe as th'other is consum'd.
But if my hopes be not as is their vse,
Of brittle glasse, or that my deep desire
Make not my hope much greater then the truth,
Here shall I see the sun beames of mine eyes.
Here if I be not mockt I shall her see
Stay her quick feete at sound of my lament.
Here shall my greedie eyes after long fast
Receiue sweet foode from her diuinest looke.
Here will she turne her son'raigne lights on mee,
If not gentle, yet cruell will they bee.
If not the meanes to breed mine inward ioy,
So fierce, yet as I die to mine annoy.
O happie day sigh'd for long time in vaine,
Loue thou dost graunt me sight of her faire eies,
I meane made bright as is the morning Sun,
Hither Ergasto sent me, where he said
Corisca and my beauteous Amarillo
Would be together playing at blind man buffe:
Yet here see I none blind, saue my blind will,
That wandring seekes her sight by other meanes
But findes it not. O poyson to my food,
This long delay blindeth my heart with feare.
My cruell desteny will neuer chaunge.
Each houre, each moment that a Louer staies
Expecting his contentment, seemes a world.
But who doth know? perhaps I staid too long,
And here Corisca hath attended mee.
Ay me! If this be true, then welcome death.
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