place did not seem to them likely quarters for one
who sang so well; for though it is often said that
shepherds of rare voice are to be found in the woods
and fields, this is rather a flight of the poet’s
fancy than the truth. And still more surprised
were they when they perceived that what they heard
sung were the verses not of rustic shepherds, but of
the polished wits of the city; and so it proved, for
the verses they heard were these:
What makes my quest of happiness seem vain?
Disdain.
What bids me to abandon hope of ease?
Jealousies.
What holds my heart in anguish of suspense?
Absence.
If that be so, then for my grief
Where shall I turn to seek relief,
When hope on every side lies slain
By Absence, Jealousies, Disdain?
What the prime cause of all my woe doth prove?
Love.
What at my glory ever looks askance?
Chance.
Whence is permission to afflict me given?
Heaven.
If that be so, I but await
The stroke of a resistless fate,
Since, working for my woe, these three,
Love, Chance and Heaven, in league I see.
What must I do to find a remedy?
Die.
What is the lure for love when coy and strange?
Change.
What, if all fail, will cure the heart of sadness?
Madness.
If that be so, it is but folly
To seek a cure for melancholy:
Ask where it lies; the answer saith
In Change, in Madness, or in Death.
The hour, the summer season, the solitary place, the
voice and skill of the singer, all contributed to
the wonder and delight of the two listeners, who remained
still waiting to hear something more; finding, however,
that the silence continued some little time, they resolved
to go in search of the musician who sang with so fine
a voice; but just as they were about to do so they
were checked by the same voice, which once more fell
upon their ears, singing this
When heavenward, holy Friendship, thou didst go
Soaring to seek thy home beyond the sky,
And take thy seat among the saints on
high,
It was thy will to leave on earth below
Thy semblance, and upon it to bestow
Thy veil, wherewith at times hypocrisy,
Parading in thy shape, deceives the eye,
And makes its vileness bright as virtue show.
Friendship, return to us, or force the cheat
That wears it now, thy livery to restore,
By aid whereof sincerity is
slain.
If thou wilt not unmask thy counterfeit,
This earth will be the prey of strife
once more,
As when primaeval discord
held its reign.
