University of Virginia Library

LOVE and DESPAIR: OR, The Disconsolate Shepherd.

From Guarini's PASTOR FIDO.

Enter Myrtillo and Ergasto.
Myr
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 thine Ears,
In solemn Silence I will dye 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 Sympathising 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're 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, least 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 Extacy 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 for ever.
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 for ever.
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 thy Visit?
In vain She listens to her Lover's Tale,
Who wants the Power 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 Silvio,
Montano's Only Son?—'Tis he.

Myr.
Thrice happy Swain! To have thy Stars dart down
Their gentle Influence so early 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 their Fires at me,
And left 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 the 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 Arcadie 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 Amynta's 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.
Whisper'd 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're he knew the Cause;
With utmost Detestation shun'd his Presence,
And swore She'd see the Hated Youth no more.
If now, Ingratitude so black as this,
Should raise a Tempest in his troubl'd Soul,
And drive him to Despair, thou best canst judge,
Who knows a Lover's Pains by sad Experience.

Myr.
Oh! 'Tis beyond the Power of Words to pain:
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're 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 Bow 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 Gods propound;
What Tribute they expect t' avert the Judgment.
Soon from the Sacred Shrine this Answer came,
This Shocking Answer, horrible to Nature.
That Cynthia was provok'd, and to appease
Her kindl'd 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 Sorrow)
Prostrate She fell before her Injur'd Lover,
Expecting from his Hands the Stroak of Death.
Boldly the Youth his Sacred Dagger drew;
His Breast with Indignation seem'd to burn,
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 surpriz'd, 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 wond'rous 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 the Embrace of One so Good;
My Life shall make Attonement for th' Offence,
And my Freed Soul shall dwell with thine for ever.
With that She drew the Ponyard 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 dye 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 wouldn't dye 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.
The Storm, indeed, abated for a Time;
But Oh! We never had a Perfect Calm.
In the same Month of the Ensuing Year
It rag'd with Greater Fury than before.
With Speed again to Cynthia's Shrine we flew,
But soon receiv'd an Answer more surprizing,
More Horrible to Nature than the First.
That Cynthia did expect to be obey'd;
That then, and every Year, a Bride, or Maid,
(Not Twenty) on Her Altar should be laid.
This, when comply'd with, and the Victim slain,
The Goddess would remove our Raging Pain.
Nor was this All: The Goddess to torment
Th' Unhappy Sex, prescrib'd this Cruel Law.
A Law (which if we weigh their Natures well)
We know they ne'r can keep; a Law that's wrote
Without Remorse, in Characters of Blood.
That every Bride, or Virgin, who should prove
Inconstant to the Swain She Once did love,
Should without Mercy in an Instant dye,
Unless some Friend would the Nymph's Place supply.
This National Calamity now Old Montano
Hopes to remove by this Intended Match.
For when again We to the Shrine apply'd,
To know what Remedy the Heav'ns prescrib'd,
To heal the Anxious Griefs Our Land groan'd under;
After some Pause, This Answer was return'd.
Now, throughout All Arcadia, None are left
Who claim a Title to Celestial Birth,
But Silvio and Amaryllis: She
The Daughter of the Mighty Pan, and He
Alcides' Son. Nor has there met 'till now,
(So much the harder our Unhappy Fate!)
Two Branches of those Lines of Different Sex.
Not without Grounds Montano therefore hopes
(Tho' what the Sacred Oracle foretold
Is not as Yet in every Point accomplish'd.)
To find Our Remedy in This Alliance.
This is the Fundamental Part; the Rest
Lies hid at present in the Breast of Fate.
Which, when the Nuptial Rites shall be perform'd,
Will visibly appear.

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.