MARS.
If it should be the chance
Of a poor traveller by some unknown way
To find at his advance
Fleeing at close of day
The inn of his desire,
The inn for which he doth in vain aspire,
Doubtless he will remain
Dazed by the fear the dark and silent night
Inspires, and yet again
Hapless will be his plight,
If dawn comes not, for Heaven
To him hath not its gladdening radiance given.
The traveller am I,
I journey on to reach a happy inn;
Whene'er I think that nigh
I come to enter in,
Then, like a fleeting shadow,
Bliss flees away, and grief doth overshadow.
CRISIO.
E'en as the torrent deep
Is wont the traveller's weary steps to hold,
And doth the traveller keep
'Midst wind and snow and cold,
And, just a little space
Beyond, the inn appears before his face,
E'en so my happiness
Is by this painful tedious absence stayed;
To comfort my distress
'Tis ever sore afraid,
And yet before mine eyes
I see the healer of my miseries.
And thus to see so near
The cure of my distress afflicts me sore,
And makes it greater far,
Because my bliss before
My hand doth further flee
For some strange cause, the nearer 'tis to me.
ORFENIO.
I saw before mine eyes
A noble inn, that did in bliss abound,
I triumphed in my prize,
Too soon, alas, I found
That vile it had become,
Changed by my fate to darkness and to gloom.