'Tis obscure, and yet 'tis clear,
Thousand opposites containing,
Truth to us at last explaining,
Which it hides from far and near;
Born at times from beauty rare
Or from lofty fantasies,
Unto strife it giveth rise,
Though it deals with things of air.
Unto all its name is known,
From the children to the old,
'Tis in numbers manifold,
Divers are the lords they own;
Every beldame doth possess
One of them to make her gay,
Things of pleasure for a day,
Full of joy or weariness.
And to rob them of their sense
Men of wisdom keep awake,
Whatsoe'er the pains they take,
Some are doomed to impotence;
Sometimes foolish, sometimes witty;
Easy, or with tangles fraught,
Whether naught it be or not,
Say, what is this thing so pretty?
Timbrio could not hit upon the thing which Elicio's question denoted, and he almost began to be ashamed at seeing that he delayed longer in answering than any one else, but not even this consideration made him come to a better perception of it; and he delayed so long that Galatea, who was after Nisida, said:
'If it is allowed to break the order which is given, and the one who should first know may reply, I say for my part that I know what the riddle propounded denotes, and I am ready to solve it, if señor Timbrio gives me leave.'
'Certainly, fair Galatea,' replied Timbrio, 'for I know that just as I lack, so you have a superabundance of, wit, to solve greater difficulties; but nevertheless I wish you to be patient until Elicio repeats it, and if this time I do not hit it, the opinion I have of my wit and yours, will be confirmed with more truth.'
Elicio repeated his question, and straightway Timbrio solved its meaning, saying:
'With the very thing by which I thought your query was obscured, Elicio, it appears to me to be solved, for the last line says, that they are to say what is this thing so pretty. And so I answer you in what you ask me, and say that your question means that which we mean by a pretty thing;[221] and do not be surprised that I have been long in answering, for, if I had answered sooner, I would have been more surprised at my wit; which will show what it is in the small skill of my question, which is this:
TIMBRIO.
Who is he who to his pain
Placeth his feet in the eyes,
And although no hurt arise,
Makes them sing with might and main?
And to pull them out is pleasure,
Though at times, who doeth so,
Doth by no means ease his woe,
But achieveth more displeasure.'