Pagina-afbeeldingen
PDF
ePub

LXV.

Daphne.

How happie was I when I saw her leade
The shepheards' daughters dauncing in a rownd!
How trimly would she trace and softly tread
The tender grasse, with rosye garland crownd!
And when she list advaunce her heavenly voyce,
Both Nymphes and Muses nigh she made astownd,
And flocks and shepheards caused to reioyce.

But now, ye shepheard Lasses! who shall lead
Your wandering troupes, or sing your virelayes?
Or who shall dight your bowres, sith she is dead
That was the lady of your holy-dayes?
Let now your blisse be turned into bale,
And into plaints convert your ioyous playes,
And with the same fill every hill and dale.

My little Flock, whom earst I loved so well,
And wont to feed with finest grasse that grew,
Feede ye hencefoorth on bitter astrofell,

And stinking smallage, and unsavorie rew;

And, when your mawes are with those weeds corrupted,

Be ye the pray of wolves; ne will I rew

That with your carkasses wild beasts be glutted.

LXV.

Daphne.

FORTUNATUS ego, quum me præsente puella
Virgineos agili duceret orbe choros !
Tam certo pede tamque levi modo nata premebat
Gramina, purpureæ flore revincta rosæ.

At quoties diam placuisset tollere vocem,
Sensit inassuetum gaudia mira pecus:
Pastores stupuere; ipsæ stupuere Camœnæ ;
Nympharumque leves Naiadumque chori.

Arcades, at vobis quæ nunc errantia ducat
Agmina, et agrestes præcinat ore modos?
Cujus ope ornentur thalami, quum concidit illa
Arbitra
quæ festos rexit amata dies?
Rumpite lætitiam; tristes dolor occupet agros;
Pro levibus resonet nænia mosta jocis.
Undique triste gemant mostis suspiria campis;
Hoc scopuli steriles; hoc nemus omne sonet.

Vosque, olim mea cura, greges, quos mollibus herbis
Nostrum erat et verna pascere luxurie;
Carpite jam rutas, quas fors ostendat, amaras,
Atque apium fœtens, astrophelumque gravem.
Inde, ubi corruptos rumpent mala gramina ventres,
Incidite in rabidos præda parata lupos.

Non ego vos doleam, nigro si pinguia tabo
Diripiant avidæ corpora vestra feræ.

Ne worse to you, my sillie Sheepe! I pray,
Ne sorer vengeance wish on you to fall
Than to myself, for whose confusde decay
To careless Heavens I doo daylie call;
But Heavens refuse to heare a wretches cry;
And cruell Death doth scorn to come at call,
Or graunt his boone that most desires to dye.

For I will walke this wandring pilgrimage,
Throughout the world from one to other end,
And in affliction waste my better age:
My bread shall be the anguish of my mynd,
My drink the teares which fro mine eyes do raine,
My bed the ground that hardest I may fynd;
So will I wilfully increase my paine.

And she, my love that was, my saint that is,
When she beholds from her celestiall throne
(In which she ioyeth in eternall bliss)
My bitter penance, will my case bemone,
And pittie me that living thus doo die;
For heavenly spirits have compassion
On mortall man, and rue their miserie.

Spenser.

Sed neque majores vobis, gens inscia, pœnas
Quam mihi, nec vobis deteriora velim ;

Quippe meas lux quæque preces in sidera vectat,
Obruat ut miserum tarda ruina caput.

Hei mihi! nam surdas frustra vox fertur ad aures,
Nec Deus extremam reddere curat opem.
Mors etiam immitis spernit properare vocata,
Et trahere ad sese qui cupit ipse mori.

Nam veluti quondam lustrans loca sancta viator
Difficiles errans itque reditque vias;

Sic equidem immensum spatiis emetiar orbem,
Temporaque assiduo verna dolore teram.
Luctus erit pro pane mihi, pro munere Bacchi
Qui salsæ ex oculis decidit imber aquæ.
Dura dabunt membris instratum saxa cubile:
Sic placet angores congeminare meos.

Illa etiam, mea flamma olim, nunc sancta voluptas Auspiciumque animæ præsidiumque meæ,

Illa ubi de sede ætheria (qua lumine cœli Gaudet, et æternæ præmia pacis habet) Horribilem pœnam aspiciet, miserebitur ultro Quod moriens vivo, nec datur usque mori. Namque et cœlicolæ nostri miserentur, et omnes Flere hominum luctus tristitiamque solent.

E. P.

LXVI.

Portia.

Is Brutus sick? and is it physical

To walk unbraced, and suck up the humours
Of the dank morning? What, is Brutus sick;
And will he steal out of his wholesome bed,
To dare the vile contagion of the night?
And tempt the rheumy and unpurgëd air
To add unto his sickness? No, my Brutus;
You have some sick offence within your mind,
Which, by the right and virtue of my place,
I ought to know of: And, upon my knees,
I charm you, by my once commended beauty,
By all your vows of love, and that great vow
Which did incorporate and make us one,
That you unfold to me, yourself, your half,
Why you are heavy; and what men to-night
Have had resort to you: for here have been
Some six or seven, who did hide their faces
Even from darkness.

Shakspeare.

« VorigeDoorgaan »