Our pain doth not thereby become the less,
Rather because we handle so the wound,
It doth condemn us to the more distress.
We must our plaints renew with all the sound
Our tongues can utter, and with all the thought
That can within our intellects be found.
Then let us cease our disputation, taught
That every ill doth anguish bring and pain,
Nor is there good with sure contentment fraught.
Sufficient ill he hath that doth constrain
His life within the confines of a tomb,
And doth in bitter loneliness remain,
Unhappy he—and mournful is his doom—
Who suffereth the pangs of jealousy,
In whom nor strength nor judgment findeth room,
And he, who spends his days in misery,
By the cruel power of absence long oppressed,
Patience his only staff, weak though it be;
Nor doth the eager lover suffer least
Who feels, when most he burns, his lady's power,
By her hard heart and coldness sore distressed.
CRISIO.
His bidding let us do, for lo, the hour
E'en now with rapid flight comes on apace,
When we our herds must needs collect once more.
And while unto the wonted sheltering-place
We go, and whilst the radiant sun to rest
Sinketh and from the meadow hides his face,