When the hope at hand is near,
And the accomplishment delays,
Harder is the pain we bear,
And affliction reacheth where
Hope doth never lift its gaze;
In the lesser pangs ye feel
'Tis the remedy of your ill
Not to hope for remedy,
But this solace faileth me,
For the pangs of absence kill.
ORFENIO.
Lo, the fruit that had been sown
By my toil that had no end,
When to sweetness it had grown,
Was by destiny my friend
Given to me for my own.
Scarce to this unheard of pass
Could I come, when I, alas!
Came the bitter truth to know,
That I should but grief and woe
From that happiness amass.
In my hand the fruit I hold,
And to hold it wearies me,
For amidst my woes untold
In the largest ear I see
A worm gnawing, fierce and bold;
I abhor what I adore,
And that which doth life restore
Brings death; for myself I shape
Winding mazes, whence escape
Is denied for evermore.
In my loss for death I sigh,
For 'tis life unto my woe.
In the truth I find a lie,
Greater doth the evil grow
Whether I be far or nigh;
No hope is there that is sure
Such an ill as this to cure;
Whether I remain or go,
Of this living death the woe
I must evermore endure.
OROMPO.
'Tis sure an error clear
To argue that the loss which death hath sent
Since it extends so far,
Doth bring in part content,
Because it takes away
The hope that fosters grief and makes it stay.
If of the glory dead
The memory that doth disturb our peace
Forever shall have fled,
The sorrow doth decrease,
Which at its loss we feel,
Since we can hope no more to keep it still.
But if the memory stays,
The memory of the bliss already fled
Doth live the more and blaze
Than when possessed indeed;
Who doubteth that this pain
Doth more than others untold miseries gain?