University of Virginia Library

THREE SELECT SCENES IN Italian and English, Of a celebrated Musical Entertainment, Entitled IL PASTOR FIDO.

Act I.

Scene I.

Silvio and Linco.
Linco.
Oh, Silvio!
Hadst thou e'er tasted the extatick Pleasure,
Truly to love, and be belov'd again,
Thy adamantine Heart would quickly soften;
Soon would'st thou cherish the fond Flame within thee;
Soon would'st thou think thy present Life insipid,
And murmur to have liv'd so long without it.
No more the Pleasures of the Woods approve:
Leave, leave all other Sports for godlike Love.

Silv.
Talk not to me of thy fantastic Flames:
I tell thee, Linco, that I value more
One brindled Boar, by my Melampo caught,
Than Thousands of those Nymphs thou so extol'st.
Let those, who have a nicer Taste than I,
The Beauties of the Plains with Pride enjoy;
I cannot relish such Society.

Linc.
Silvio, thy Soul is out of Tune—
But have a Care; the Hour will one Day come,
When thou must own Love's soft Supremacy.
Sooner or later, once he triumphs o'er us,
Asserts his Right, and claims our due Allegiance.
Believe me, Silvio,
(For I, by sad Experience, know the Truth on't.)
No greater Pain can Mortal undergo,
Than in his Evening, his Decline of Life,
To feel the sharp, the piercing Stings of Love:
For then, no Cure can for the Wound be found,
And every Application when renew'd
Does but enflame, and make it rage the more.
When e'er in Youth he strikes his Arrows deep,
He quickly cures himself the Wounds he makes;
Eases his Patient's Pains with future Hopes,
And with a Smile atones for former Frowns.
But if his Arrows once transfix the Old,
(Who cannot attribute their Nymphs Disdain
To any Thing but the Decay of Nature)
Then are the Wounds he makes incurable,
And all their Pains too sharp for human Suff'rance.
Prithee, dear Silvio, do not hasten on thee
The Curse of Time, before the Time appointed;
For, Oh! to learn to love, when thou art old,
Will sting thy drooping Soul with double Torture.
How wilt thou then upon thyself reflect,
That in thy Youth thou did Love's Charms neglect!
No more the Pleasures of the Woods approve:
Leave, leave all other Sports for godlike Love.

Silv.
As if there were no Pleasures to pursue,
But those which you fantastick Lovers know.

Linc.
Tell me if in the jovial Month of May,
When the gay Earth is deck'd in all her Glory,
Should'st thou, instead of verdant flow'ry Meads,
Instead of shady Groves and purling Streams,
Behold the Pine, the Ash, the Oak, all leafless;
The Ground without a Flow'r, the Floods congeal'd,
Would'st thou not say, that Nature was inverted,
The Universe was sick, and just expiring?
Now, Silvio, turn thy Eyes upon thyself,
And thou wilt see a Prodigy in Nature,
As horrible as this: To different Ages,
Heaven has bestowed Diversity of Passions:
And as fond Love but ill becomes the Old,
So he that's Young, and disregards the Fair,
Thwarts the Design of Nature and of Heav'n,
Silvio, look round:—
Examine all the Works of the Creation.
And thou wilt find 'em all th' Effects of Love.
Dost thou not see yon Messenger of Day?
Ev'n she herself does Cupid's Pow'r obey.
This Moment sure she left her God of War,
She looks so gay and so divinely fair.
Love fires the Beasts that haunt the desart Woods,
And bulky Whales that lord it in the Floods.
The Nightingale, that tunes his warbling Throat,
And strikes thine Ear with such a pleasing Note,
That wantonly from Beach to Beach does move,
Could he but speak, would say, I burn with Love.
Love sparkles in his little wanton Eyes,
And his soft Warblings Want of Speech supplies.
His pretty tender Mate knows what they mean,
And listens to them with a pleasing Pain.
The lusty Bull ranges the Pastures round,
And bellows as he runs, and spurns the Ground;
But then those awful Sounds, those Gestures prove
Not the Result of Anger, but of Love.
The Lion roars within the desart Wood,
More for his absent Mate than Want of Food.
In short, there's no created Thing, but thee,
That is from Love's Almighty Power free.
And shall my Silvio no Devotion pay
To him, that bears such universal Sway?
No more the Pleasures of the Woods approve:
Leave, leave all other Sports for god-like Love.

Silv.
Were then my tender blooming Years, dost think,
Entrusted to thy Care for nothing else,
But to attend thy soft romantic Lectures,
Thy love-sick Stories, which my Soul abhors?
Pray, Linco, recollect thyself, and know
The Inequality there is betwixt us.

Linc.
I am a Man, proud Youth, and thou'rt no more.
And glory in my mortal Composition.
If thy ambitious Soul disdains the Title,
And takes her Flight beyond a human Pitch,
Take Care thou doesn't sink beneath ev'n Manhood,
In aiming to be something more than Man.

Silv.
My great, my valiant Grandsire Hercules,
Who quell'd the savage Monsters of the Woods,
Whose Blood runs briskly thro' my youthful Veins,
Had never been recorded in Fame's Annals,
Had he not first subdu'd that Monster, Love.

Linc.
Pride and Ambition, Silvio, blind thy Reason.
Where hadst thou been? How, pray, hadst thou been born,
Had thy Alcides never felt Love's Pow'r?
Nay all the glorious Actions he perform'd,
The many Conquests that he gain'd in Battle,
Were all the Effects of this Almighty Passion.
Hast thou not heard, how the Fair Omphale
Made him confess the Triumph of her Eyes,
And bound him Captive by her magic Charms?
How he resign'd his rugged Lion's Skin,
To deck himself in all her female Glory?
How he sat down to learn her little Arts,
And turn'd his knotty Club into a Distaff?
Thus would he shift the Scene, and when fatigu'd
With the hard Toil, and Hazard of the Day,
In her soft Arms repose himself at Night;
There make amends for all his Labours past;
Surfeit on Joy till ev'n Desire grew sick;
And then his former Toils again repeat.
If then thy haughty Soul would imitate
The glorious warlike Deeds thy Grandsire wrought;
Tho' still thou dost in Woods delight to rove,
Yet do not banish quite the Thoughts of Love:
Sometimes to Amaryllis's Charms resign;
Her Blood's as noble, and as rich as thine.
That thou dost shun Dorinda's proffer'd Love,
I do not only pardon but approve.
Thine Honour, which thou dost so highly prize,
Will not permit th' unlawful Flame to rise;
Can ne'er consent thou basely should'st abuse
So great, so worthy, so divine a Spouse.

Silv.
That she's my Spouse, as yet thou can'st not say.

Linc.
Were there not solemn Vows between you past?
Take Care, proud Youth, you don't the Gods distast.

Silv.
The Gift of Freedom, is the Gift of Jove;
He ne'er regards compulsive Vows of Love.

Linc.
Nay, but I tell thee, Silvio, Jove looks down,
And makes this Match a Bus'ness of his own;
Has promis'd to attend thy Nuptial Rites,
And crown 'em with unheard-of, new Delights.

Silv.
Canst think that Jove would break his sweet Repose,
To mind such trivial Things, as Lover's Vows?
I tell thee, Amaryllis I despise,
Nor am I mov'd with fair Dorinda's Eyes:
No Female Planet rul'd when I was born:
The Queen of Love with all her Charms I scorn.
Diana is the Goddess I approve,
And I'm resolv'd thro' all her Woods to rove,

Linc.
Hard-hearted Youth! I scarcely can believe
Thou dost from Gods, or Men, thy Race derive.
Or, if thy Father was a mortal Man,
Thro' all his Veins Alecto's Poisons ran.
When in his Arms thy Mother he carest,
Tysiphone alone his Heart possest.

Scene II.

Myrtillo and Ergasto.
Myrtillo.
Obdurate Maid! whose comprehensive Name
Shews that the Sweets of Love are dash'd with Gall;
More beauteous art thou than the blushing Rose,
Fairer than Lillies, gayer than the Morn;
But deaf, alas! to all my Sighs and Tears;
Deaf as the Winds, the Waters, or the Weather.
Since then my Words have lost the Pow'r to please,
Like Ravens Notes sound harsh unto thy Ears,
In solemn Silence I will die before thee;
Without a Groan will at thy Feet expire.—
Yet all in vain—There's not a Hill, or Vale,
Or murmuring Tree in yonder shady Grove,
(On which so often I have carv'd thy Name,
To which I have so oft reveal'd my Passion)
But will proclaim my cruel Fate aloud.
Each Rill shall shed a sympathysing Tear,
Each Zephyr fills with Sighs the ambient Air:
Pity and Grief shall in my Eyes be read,
And my unhappy Cause by Turns shall plead.
At last,—
If all my Wrongs can no Compassion move,
My Death itself to all the World shall prove,
I fell a Victim to the God of Love.

Erga.
Love is, my Friend, a Pain unspeakable!
But to suppress it still augments my Pain.
As the hot Courser, when he feels the Curb,
With double Speed scow'rs o'er the dusty Plain;
So Love restrain'd, and in the Breast confin'd,
With double Fury burns, and wrecks the Sense.
In vain thou striv'st to hide the Secret from me;
For I have look'd into thy artless Bosom,
And view'd the Hurry which thy Soul is in.
How often have I said, Myrtillo loves,
But will not tell the Object he adores!

Myr.
Nor would I now reveal my luckless Passion,
Did not Necessity extort it from me.
What is my Happiness compar'd to her's?
Rather I'd drag this Load of Life in Pain,
Than in the least disturb my Fair One's Quiet.
'Tis whisper'd, my Ergasto, thro' our Plain,
(And oh! the News strikes thro' my trembling Heart)
That Hymen will To-morrow join the Hands
Of Amaryllis, and some happy Swain;
But who, as yet, my Friend, I cannot learn:
Nor dare I ask, lest I reveal my Flame,
And find the Truth of what my Soul abhors.
I know, alas! too well my abject State,
(For Love has not so far my Reason blinded)
Ever to hope that Heav'n would bless my Arms
With such a Nymph, so exquisitely form'd,
Adorn'd with every Grace, that Nature's Hand
Could lavishly with all her Art bestow:
Whose Mind is still superior to those Charms,
And speaks its Essence to be all divine.
No—Some ill Planet rul'd when I was born.—
I'm doom'd to love, but never to enjoy.
'Tis Death, and Death alone can heal my Sorrows;
And since my Fate's to be in Love with Death,
With utmost Pleasure I'd this Life forego;
With Extasy expire, so that the lovely Charmer
Would bless me with her Eyes, and seal my Fate.
I have but this, this only Boon to ask,
That she would hear her poor Myrtillo speak,
Before she gives herself away forever.
Now generous Youth—
If I am one in whom thy Soul takes Pleasure,
Since Passion overbears me, plays the Tyrant,
And hurries my unstable, flitting Soul
To Madness and Despair;—Pity my Sorrows,
And lend me, if thou can'st, thy helping Hand.

Erg.
A small Request for a poor, dying Lover;
Yet to accomplish what thy Soul desires,
Is a hard Task, and of the last Importance.
Should the fair Nymph's stern Father chance to hear
His Daughter listen'd to thy Love-sick Story;
Or should the fatal News once reach the Ears
Of the High Priest Montano, (Silvio's Father)
The Darling of thy Soul is lost forever.
For this, and this alone perhaps she flies thee:
Her Frowns perhaps may prove but Artifice,
And her fond Heart may pity thee in private.
Women are more inclin'd to Love than Men;
But with more Art conceal the raging Pain.
Grant this Suggestion true—Tell me, Myrtillo,
Hasn't she Reason to deny the Visit?
In vain she listens to her Lover's Tale,
Who wants the Pow'r his wounded Soul to heal;
Admits him to her Presence but in vain,
When the soft Interview will but augment his Pain.
And he, Myrtillo, doubtless is to blame,
Who loves, despairs, and yet still fans the Flame.

Myr.
O! Could I once but entertain that Thought,
My anxious Pain would prove the greatest Pleasure.
But, my dear Friend, (so may the Gods smile on thee)
Do not conceal the fatal Secret from me.
Confirm my Fate, and boldly name the Swain,
The happy Swain, the Darling of the Stars.

Erg.
Dost thou not know the Rich, the gallant Sylvio,
Montano's only Son?—'Tis he.

Myr.
Thrice happy Swain! To have thy Stars dart down
Their gentle Influence so early on thee!
Forgive me, if thou hear'st my tender Sighs;
I envy not thy Fate, but mourn my own.

Erg.
Thou shouldstn't envy him; indeed Myrtillo,
He claims thy Pity rather.

Myr.
What! Pity, say'st thou.

Erg.
Yes, thy Pity; for he cannot love her.

Myr.
Is he a Man? and is his Heart untouch'd?
Can he be blind to such a World of Charms?
Or has her Eyes shot all her Fires at me,
And lest no Dart for any other Breast?
But why must such a glorious, matchless Prize
Be thrown into the Arms of one, who scorns,
Or values not th' inestimable Blessing!

Erg.
Soon as their nuptial Rites shall be perform'd,
Indulgent Heav'n has promis'd to avert
The direful Judgments that attend Arcadia.
Hast thou not heard how our offended Goddess
Each Year demands a spotless Virgin's Blood,
(A barbarous Tribute!) from our guilty Land.

Myr.
Never Ergasto—
Nor blame, nor wonder at my Ignorance,
Since 'tis but lately that I came amongst you;
And since (so Love and Fate decreed) 'till now I've been
The constant Tenant of the shady Groves.
But say—
What heinous Crime has Arcady committed,
To draw such Vengeance on her guilty Head,
And rouse such Fury in a Goddess' Breast?

Erg.
Since then thou hast not heard the fatal Story,
I'll tell thee such a mournful, horrid Tale,
Would rend ev'n Rocks, and soften knotted Oaks,
Much more incline thy tender Soul to Pity.
Before the sacred Priesthood was confin'd
To one peculiar Age, a gallant Youth,
Diana's favourite Priest (by Name Amyntas)
Confess'd the Triumph of Lucrina's Eyes.
The God of Love shot all his Fires from thence
Into his Soul, and his whole Heart receiv'd them.
The Nymph was made in Nature's purest Mould
Without Alloy, her Form was all divine.
Heav'n, Heav'n itself was seated in her Eyes,
But Hell, all Hell in her false treacherous Heart:
For a long Time she crown'd Amyntas' Pains
With gentle Smiles, and seem'd at least to burn
With mutual Flames; long fed his Hopes with Vows.
Of everlasting Truth, and constant Love:
And (while no Rival came t'oppose his Wishes)
He reign'd sole Monarch of her faithless Heart.
But (Curse on the Jilt!) soon as another Swain
Whispered his Love-sick Story in her Ears,
The treacherous Nymph, transported at her Conquest,
And raging with a Flood of, new Desires,
Forgot the numerous Vows she made Amyntas,
And seal'd his Ruin e'er he new the Cause;
With utmost Detestation shunn'd his Presence.
And swore she'd see the hated Youth no more.
If now Ingratitude looks so black as this
Should raise a Tempest in his troubl'd Soul,
And drive him to Despair, thou best canst judge,
Who know'st a Lover's Pains by sad Experience.

Myr.
Oh! 'Tis beyond the Power of Words to paint
Distress like his.

Erg.
—At last th' unhappy Youth,
Finding her deaf to all his Sighs and Tears,
(Deaf as the Winds, and as the Rocks unshaken)
All prostrate at Diana's sacred Altar.
With trembling Accent thus bespoke his Goddess.
If with an upright Heart, and guiltless Hand,
I ever offer'd Sacrifice before thee;
If e'er my Service has been grateful to thee,
Then from thy awful Seat above look down,
Assert my Cause, and plead it as thy own.
Pour down thy Vengeance on the guilty Head
Of that too lovely Fair, but cruel Maid,
Who with her perjur'd Breath my honest Heart betray'd'
With good Success the Youth preferr'd his Pray'rs.
Cynthia look'd down, and heard his heavy Sighs,
Saw all his Tears, and pity'd his Distress.
Her Pity kindled in her Breast Revenge,
And fann'd the furious Flame; so strait she took
Her fatal Blow in her all-pow'rful Hand;
Out of her Quiver drew her keenest Arrows,
And shot them in the Bosom of Arcadia.
Swift as the forky Light'ning round they flew,
Unerring, and unseen; and sure Destruction
Attended every Dart. No Age, no Sex, they spar'd;
Relentless, did perform their dire Commission.
In vain to distant Rocks th' Arcadian flies,
Within the Rocks the dire Contagion lies.
Fruitless are Antidotes with Skill apply'd;
The Artist falls by his weak Patient's Side.
Man's utmost Efforts now prove ineffectual,
And Heav'n alone can mitigate his Sorrows.
So to the nearest Oracle he flies,
To know what Terms the angry God propound;
What Tribute they expect t'avert the Judgment.
Soon from the sacred Shrine this Answer came,
That Cynthia was provok'd, and to appease
Her kindled Wrath, and seal Arcadia's Peace,
Lucrina on her Altar must be laid;
Or in her Stead, some false, but beauteous Maid,
And by the Hands of wrong'd Amyntas bleed.
Fruitless are all her Sighs, and flowing Tears;
In vain she flies to her new Lover's Arms,
And with her melting Eyes implores his Aid
In vain, to save her from approaching Ruin.
The beauteous Nymph, like a gay Bride adorn'd,
Was to Diana's Temple strait conducted,
In all the Splendour and the solemn Pomp
Religion could devise.—Soon as the Victim came,
All pale, and trembling to the sacred Altar,
(Her lovely Eyes all drown'd in Floods of Sorrows)
Prostrate she fell before her injur'd Lover,
Expecting from his Hands the Stroke of Death.
Boldly the Youth his sacred Dagger drew;
His Breast with Indignation seem'd to burn,
This shocking Answer, horrible to Nature,
His Brows to knit, his angry Eyes to roll
With glowing Vengeance, Fury and Despair.
At last, with a deep Sigh (Death's Harbinger)
And Looks compos'd, he thus bespoke the Maid:
O! thou too lovely, faithless, perjur'd Nymph,
Judge of my Wrongs by this tremendous Blow.
This said—he plung'd the fatal Weapon deep
Into his sacred Breast; and at her trembling Feet
The Victim, and the Priest fell down together.
Like one that stands upon the Verge of Life,
Confounded and surprised, Lucrina shiver'd,
Doubtful as yet, which had transfix'd her Heart,
Excess of Sorrow, or the Dread of Death.
Soon as her scatter'd Senses were-recall'd,
And her lost Speech return'd; she sighing, said,
O, generous Youth! I know thy wondrous Worth,
Thy Constancy and Love, alas! too late.
The Sight of thee thus dying by my Side,
At once revives, and wounds my bleeding Heart.
If I have sinn'd (as doubtless I have sinn'd)
In flying from th' Embrace of one so good;
My Life shall make Atonement for th' Offence,
And my freed Soul should dwell with thine forever,
With that she took the Poynard from his Breast,
Warm with his precious Blood, and plung'd it deep
Into her own.—Trembling and faint, she fell
Into his dying Arms, who just had Life,
Feebly to fold the Fair, and die with Pleasure.
Thus fell the too indulgent, constant Swain,
Thus was the Nymph undone by her Disdain.

Myr.
Unhappy Youth!—Yet happy in thy Love!
What Opportunity more great, more glorious,
Could'st thou have had, to shew th' unshaken Faith?
Who would not die to melt the scornful Fair?
But what became of the distress'd Arcadians?
Did the Contagion cease? Was Cynthia's Anger
Perfectly appeas'd?

Erg.

Myr.
Never was Swain so wretched sure as I am!
What Combination's here! What Pow'rs conspire
To ruin one, half-dead with Grief already!
Is't not enough the Pangs of Love to bear,
That I must wage with Fate unequal War?

Erg.

Scene III.

Corisca.

A SHORT Epigrammatic Dialogue

Between A Passenger and a Turtle-Dove.

Passenger.
Why, pretty Turtle, dost thou mourn
Within this shady Grove?

Dove.
I've lost, alas! my faithful Mate,
The Partner of my Love.

Passenger.
An't you afraid the Fowler's Hand
Your Blood, like Her's, should spill?

Dove.
Oh! no: For, if he kills me not,
Incessant Sorrow will.