Well as his song, grave, tender, sweet,
Beneath the beechen shade,
The wild brook babbling at his feet,
When he bewailed the chaste deceit
Of his beloved maid.
8.
But hush the chords, for there, ah there,
Salicio too grew mute,
And broken-hearted with despair
For the too false, forsaking fair,
Hung up his useless lute!
FLORENCIO ROMANO, ON THE DEATH OF GARCILASSO.
Chi audace osera mai tue lodi sparte?
1.
What daring hand may hope to raise
To thee the double trophy due,
Whom not alone the poet's bays
Distinguished, but the warrior's too?
What tributary voice in one
Collect thy various praises? None.
2.