In this great wholeheartedness
From the healthy purpose sprung,
'Tis Love guides the hand along
And the thought thy loveliness;
Love, Silena, in this hour,
And thy loveliness so fair,
Will account discretion rare
What thou wilt deem folly sure.
Love constrains, loveliness moveth
Me to adore thee, and to write;
Since my faith the twain upright
Hold, my hand its courage proveth;
And in this my fault so great,
Though thy rigour threateneth,
Love, thy loveliness, my faith,
Will my error palliate.
Since with helpers such as these,
Though they blame me, ne'ertheless,
I can well the bliss express
Sprung from mine own miseries;
And this bliss, full well I know,
Is naught else, Silena fair,
Save that I amid my care
Should a wondrous patience show.
No small pleasure makes me glad,
For in patience lies my bliss;
Were it not so, long ere this,
Had my misery made me mad;
But my senses all agree,
All together join to cry,
That I, though I needs must die,
May die wise and patiently.
After all, the jealous one,
Whom none loveth, scarce will be
Able to bear patiently,
When he makes his love-sick moan;
Since, amid my agonies,
All my bliss is banishèd,
When I see that hope is dead,
And the foe before my eyes.
Countless years, my shepherdess,
Revel in thy blissful thought,
For I seek no pleasure bought
With thy sorrow or distress;
Follow ever, lady fair,
Thy desire, since 'tis thy pleasure,
For I, for another's treasure,
Think not e'er to shed a tear.
For it had been levity
To the soul my soul to yield,
Which hath as its glory held
That it hath not liberty;
But, ah me! fortune doth will—
And Love also doth agree—
That my neck is not to flee
From the knife that doth me kill.
Now I go—I know too plain—
After one that shall me doom,
And when thoughts of parting come,
I more firm and fixed remain;
Ah, what bonds, what nets I find,
Dearest! in thine eyes so bright,
Which, the more I take to flight,
Hold the more, the faster bind!
Eyes, alas! ye make me fear,
That if ye but look on me,
Lesser shall my solace be,
And the greater grow my care;
'Tis a truth none can gainsay,
That the glances ye bestow
On me, are but feigned, for, lo!
Cruelly they my love repay.