[248] [Old copy, the cure, he.]
[ACTUS II., SCÆNA 1.]
Thyrsis, Montanus. To them Mirtillus.
[Thyr.] This day the sun shot forth his beams as fair
As e'er he did, and through the trembling air
Cool Zephyrus with gentle murmuring
Breath'd a new freshness on each tree and plant:
My kids are gamesome too, as e'er they were;
All show a face of gladness but myself.
Mon. And why not you as well by their example?
Thyr. Not in this life: here joy would be untimely:
The gods reserve for me their comforts in
Th' Elysian fields, or else they mock my sorrows.
Mon. O, say not so, they're just and pitiful.
Thyr. They are, but, father—so I still must call you—
When in the sadness of my soul I ask'd
Before the altar of our great Apollo,
What should become of me, or where my love,
Bright Sylvia, was, whether alive or dead,
Why should the oracle reply: Go home,
Thou shall enjoy thy Sylvia?
Mon. What more could you
Desire to hear?