My hard and bitter fate,
My unrelenting star,
My will that bears it all and suffereth,
This doom did promulgate,
Thankless Belisa fair,
That I should serve and love thee e'en in death
Though thy brow threateneth
With ruthless, angry frown,
And though thine eyes so clear
A thousand woes declare,
Yet mistress of this soul I shall thee crown,
Until a mortal veil
Of flesh no more on earth my soul conceal.
Can there be good that vies
With my tormenting ill,
Can any earthly ill such anguish give?
For each of them doth rise
Far beyond human skill,
And without her in living death I live,
In disdain I revive
My faith, and there 'tis found
Burnt with the chilly cold.
What vanity behold,
The unwonted sorrow that my soul doth wound!
Can it be equal, see,
Unto the ill that fain would greater be?
But who is he who stirs
The interwoven boughs
Of this round-crested myrtle, thick and green?
OROMPO.
A shepherd who avers,
Reasoning from his woes,
Founding his words upon the truth therein,
That it must needs be seen
His sorrow doth surpass
The sorrow thou dost feel,
The higher thou mayst raise it,
Exalt it, and appraise it.
MARS.
Conquered wilt thou remain in such a deal,
Orompo, friend so true.
And thou thyself shalt witness be thereto.
If of my agonies,
If of my maddening ill,
The very smallest part thou didst but know,
Thy vanities would cease,
For thou wouldst see that still
My sufferings all are true, and thine but show.
OROMPO.
Deem thy mysterious woe
A phantom of the mind,
Than mine, that doth distress
My life, reckon thine less,
For I will save thee from thine error blind,
And the dear truth reveal,
That thy ill is a shadow, mine is real.
But, lo! the voice I hear
Of Crisio, sounding plain.
A shepherd he, whose views with thine agree,
To him let us give ear,
For his distressful pain
Maketh him swell with pride, as thine doth thee.
MARS.