CHAP. VI. Wherein are rehearsed the dispayring Verses of the dead Sheep heard, with other unexpected accidents. The Canzone of Chrisostome. 1 S Ince cruell thou (I publish) dost desire, From tongue to tongue, and th' one to th' other Pole The efficacy of thy rigor sharp, I' le Hell constrain t' assist my soules desire, And in my brest infuse a tun of dole. Whereon my voice, as it is wont, may Harp, And labour, as I wish, at once to carp And tell my sorrowes and thy Murdring deeds; The dreadfull voyce and accents shall agree, And, with them; meet for greater torture bee Lumps of my wreched bowels, which still bleeds. Then listen, and lend once attentive eare, Not well consorted tunes, but howling t' heare, That from my bitter bosoms dopth takes flight; And by constrained raving born away, Issues forth for mine ease and thy despight. 2 The Lion's roaring, and the dreadfull howles Of ravening Wolfe, and hissing terrible Of squamy Serpent; and the fearfull bleate Of some sad Monster; of fore-telling-foules, The Pies crackling, and rumor horrible Of the contending Wind, as it doth beat The Sea; and implacable bellowes, yet Of vanquish't Bull; and of the Turtle sole The feeling mourning and the dolefull song Of th' envious-Owle, with the dyre plaints among, Of all th' infernall Squadron full of dole, Sallie with my lamenting Soule a round All mixed with so strange unusuall sound, As all the Senses may confounded be; For my fierce torment, a new way exact, Wherein I may recount my Miserie, 3 The dolefull Ecchoes of so great confusion, Shall not resound o're father Tagus sands, Nor touch the Olive-watring Betis eares, Of my dire pangs I' le only make effusion Mongst those steep Rocks, aud hollow bottom lands, With mortified tongue, but living teares: Sometimes in hidden Dales where nought appeares, Or in unhaunted plaines free from accesse; Or where the Sun could ne're intrude a Beam; Amidst the venemous crue of Beasts unclean, Whose wants, with bounty, the free plains redresse; For though among those vast and Desart downes, The hollow Eccho indistinctly sounds Thy matchlesse rigour, and my cruell paine, Yet by the priviledge of my niggard Fates, It will their force throughout the world proclaim. 4 A disdain kils; and patience runs a ground, By a suspicion either false or true; But Iealousie with greater rigour slayes, A prolix absence doth our life confound. Against fear of oblivion to ensue, Firm hope of best successe gives little ease, Inevitable death lurks in all these. But I (O unseen Miracle) doe still live Iealous, absent, disdain'd, and certain too Of the suspicions that my life undoe! Drownd in Oblivion which my fire revives, And amongst all those paines I never scope Got, to behold the shadow once of hope: Nor thus despaired would I it allow; But cause I may more aggravate my moanes, To live ever without it, here I vow. 5 Can hope and fear, at once, in one consist? Or is it reason that it should bee so? Seeing the cause more certain is of feare; If before mee dyre Iealousie exist, Shall I deflect mine eyes? since it will shew It self by a thousand wounds in my soule there. Or, who will not the gates unto Despair Wide open set, after that hee hath spy'd Murdring disdain? and noted each suspicion To seeming truth transform'd? O sowre conversion! Whil'st Verity by Falshood is beli'd? O Tyrant of Loves state, fierce Iealousie, With cruell chaines, these hands together tie, With stubborn cords couple them, rough Disdain; But woe is mee, with bloody victory Your memory, is by my sufferance slain! 6 I die, in fine, and cause I'le not expect In death or life for the least good successe: I obstinate will rest in Fantasie. And say hee doth well, that doth affect. And eke the Soule most liberty possesse, That is most thrall to Loves old Tyrannie. And will affirm mine ever enemie In her fair shrine, a fairer soule containes: And her oblivion from my fault to spring, And to excuse her wrongs will witnesse bring, That Love by her in peace his state maintains, And with a hard knot, and this strange opinion, I will accelerate the wretched summon, To which guided I am by her scornes rife, And offer to the ayre Body and Soule, Without hope or reward of future life. 7 Thou that by multiplying wrongs dost shew The reason forcing mee t' use violence Vnto this loathsom life, grown to mee hatefull, Since now by signes notorious thou maist know From my hearts deepest wound; how willingly sense Doth sacrifice mee to thy scorns ingratefull. If my deserts have seemd to thee so bootefull, As thy fayr eyes cleer heav'n should bee ore-cast And clouded at my death; yet doe not so, For I'le no recompence take for the woe: By which, of my Soules spoyles possest thou wast: But rather laughing at my funerals sad, Shew how mine end, begins to make thee glad. But 'tis a folly to advise thee this, For I know in my deaths acceleration Consists thy glory and thy chiefest blisse: 8 Let Tantalus from the profoundest deeps Come, for it is high time now, with his thirst: And Sisifus with his oppressing stone. Let Ticius bring his Raven that ne're sleeps, And Ixion make no stay with wheele accurst, Nor the three Sisters ever lab'ring on. And let them all at once their mortall moane; Translate into my breast, and lovely sound (If it may bee a debt due to despaire) And chant sad obsequies with dolefull ayre, Over a Corse unworthy of the ground. And the three-fac'd-infernall Porter Grimme, With thousand Monsters and Chymaeraes dimme, Relish the dolorous descant out amain. For greater Pomp then this I think not fit That any dying Lover should obtain. 9 Despayring Canzone doe not thou complain, When thou my sad soci'ty shalt refrain: But rather since the cause whence thou didst spring, By my misfortune growes more fortunate Ev'n in the Grave, thou must shun sorrowing. Chrisostomes Canzone liked wonderfully all the hearers, although the reader thereof affirmed that it was not conformable to the relation that he had received ef Marcelaes virtue and care of her self. For in it Crisostome did complain of jealousies, suspicions, and absence, being all of them things that did prejudice Marcelaes good fame. To this objection Ambrosio answered (as one that knew very well the most hidden secrets of his friend) you must understand Sir, to the end you may better satisfie your own doubt, That when the unfortunate Sheepheard wrote that Canzone, he was absent from Mar cela; from whose presence he had wittingly withdrawn himself, to see if he could de face some part of his excessive passions, procured by absence. And as every thing doth vex an absent Lover, and every fear afflict him; so was Crisostome likewise tormented by imagined jealousies and feared suspicions, as much as if they were reall and true. And with this remains the truth in her perfection and poynt of Marcelaes virtue; who excepting that she is cruel, and somewhat arrogant, and very disdainfull; very envy it self neither ought, nor can attaint her of the least defect. You have reason, quoth Vivaldo, and so desiring to read another paper, he was interrupted by a marvellous vision (for such it seemed) that unexpectedly offered it self to their view: Which was, That on the top of the Rock wherein they made the grave, appeared the Sheepheardesse Marcela, so fair, that her beauty surpassed far the fame that was spread thereof; such as had not beheld her before, did look on her then with admiration and silence; and those which were wont to view her remained no lesse suspended then the others, which never had seen her. But scarce had Ambrosio eyed her, when with an irefull & disdaining minde, he spake these words. Com'st thou by chance, O fierce Basilisk of these Mountains! to see whether the wounds of this wretch will yet bleed at thy presence? Or doest thou come to insult and vaunt in the Tragicall feats of thy stern nature? Or to behold from that height, like another mercilesse Nero, the Fire of inflamed Rome? Or arrogantly to trample this infortunate Carkasse, as the ingratefull daughter did her father Tar quin's? Tell us quickly, why thou commest, or what thou doest most desire? For seeing I know that Crisostomes thoughts never disobeyed thee in life, I will likewise cause that all those his friends shall serve and reverence thee. I come not here, good Ambrosio, to any of those ends thou sayest, quoth Marcela; but only to turn for mine honour, and give the world to understand, how little rea son have all those which make me the Authour eyther of their own pains, or of Criso stom's death; and therefore I desire all you that be here present, to lend attention unto me; for I mean not to spend much time • or words, to perswade to the disceet, so manifest a truth. Heaven, as you say, hath made me beautifull, and that so much that my feature moves you to love, almost whether you will or no. And for the affection you shew unto me, you say I and you affirm, that I ought to love you again: I know by the naturall instinct that Iove hath bestowed on me, That each fair thing is amiable: but I cannot conceive, why, for the reason of being beloved, the partie that is so beloved for her beauty, should be bound to love her Lover, although he bee foul. And seeing that foul things are worthy of hate, It is a bad argument to say, I love thee because fair; and therefore thou must affect me although uncomely. But set the case that the beauties occur equall on both sides, it follows not therefore, that their desires should run one way: For all beauties doe not enamour; for some doe only delight the sight, and subject not the will: For if all beauties did enamour and subject together, mens wills would ever run confused and straying, without being able to make any election; for the beautifull subjects being infinite, the desires must also perforce be infinite: And as I have heard, true Love brooks no division, and must needs be voluntary, and not inforced. Which being so, as I presume it is; why would you have me subject my will forcibly, without any other obligation then that, that you say you love me? If not, tell me: If heaven had made me foul, as it hath made me beautifull, Could I justly complain of you because you affected me not? How much more, seeing you ought to consider, that I did not chuse the beauty I have; for, such as it is, heaven bestow'd it gratis, without my demanding or electing it. And even as the Viper deserves no blame for the poyson she carries, although therewithall she kill, seeing it was bestowed on her by nature: So doe I as little merit to be re prehended because beautifull; for beauty in an honest woman is like fire a far off, or a sharp edged Sword; for neither that burns nor this cuts any but such as come neer them. Honour and Virtues are the ornaments of the Soul, without which, the fairest body is not to be esteemed such. And if that honesty be one of the virtues that adorneth and beautifieth most the body and Soul; Why should shee that is beloved, because fair, adventure the losse thereof, to answer his intention, which only for his pleasures sake labours that she may lose it, with all his force and industry? I was born free, and because I might live freely, I made election of the solitude of the Fields: The Trees of these mountains are my companions; the cleer water of these streams my mirrours. With the Trees and Waters I communicate my thoughts and beauty: I am a parted Fire, and a Sword laid aloofe. Those whom I have enamoured with my sight, I have undeceived with my words. And if desires be susteined by hopes, I never having given any to Chrisostome or to any other, it may well be said, that he was rather slain by his own obstinacy, then by my cruelty. And if I be charged that his thoughts were honest; and that I was therefore oblieged to answer unto them: I say, that when in that very place where you make his Sepulchre, he first broak his minde unto mee: I told him that mine intention was to live in perpetuall soli tude; and that only the earth should gather the fruits of my solitarinesse, and the spoyles of my beauty. And if he would after this my resolution persist obstinately without all hope, and against the winde; what wonder is it that he should be drown ed in the mid'st of the Gulf of his rashnesse? If I had entertained him, then were I false: If I had pleased him, then should I doe against my better purposes and pro jects. He strived being perswaded to the contrary: He dispaired e're he was hated. See then if it be reason that I bear the blame of his torment. Let him complain who hath been deceived: Let him dispair to whom his promised hopes have failed: Let him confesse it whom I shall ever call: Let him vaunt whom I shall admit. But let him not call me cruell or an homicide, whom I never promised, deceived, called, or admitted. Heaven hath not yet ordeined that I should Love by destiny; and to think that I will doe it by election may be excused. And let this generall caveat serve every one of those which sollicite me for his particular benefit: And let it he known, that if any shall hereafter dye for my Love, that he dies not jealous or unfortunate: For whosoever loves not any, breeds not in reason jealousie in any; nor should any resolutions to any be accounted disdaynings. He that calls me a Savage and Basi lisk, let him shun me as a hurtfull and prejudiciall thing. He that calls me ungratefull, let him not serve me. Hee that's strange, let him not know me. He that's cruell, let him not follow me: For this Savage, this Basilisk, this Ingrate, this Cruell and Strange one, will neither seek, serve, know, or pursue any of them. For if Cri sostomes impatience and headlong desire slew him; why should mine honest proceed ing and care be inculped therewithall? If I preserve mine integrity in the society of these Trees; why would any desire me to lose it, seeing every one covets to have the like himself, to converse the better among men? I have, as you all know, riches enough of mine own, and therefore doe not covet other mens. I have a free condition, and I doe not please to subject me: Neither doe I love or hate any. I doe not deceive this man, or sollicite that other; Nor doe I jest with one, & passe the time with another. The honest conversation of the Pastoraes of these Villages, and the care of my Goats doe entertain me. My desires are limited by these Moun tains; and if they doe issue from hence, it is to contemplate the beauty of Heaven, steps wherewithall the Soul travells toward her first dwelling. And ending here, without desiring to hear any answer, she turned her back and entred into the thickest part of the wood, that was there at hand, leaving all those that were presently marvel lously admired at her beauty & discretion. Some of the Sheepheards present, that were wounded by the powerfull beams of her beautifull eyes, made profer to pursue her, without reaping any profit out of her mani fest resolution made there in their hearing; which Don-Quixote noting, and thinking that the use of this Chivalry did jump fitly with that occasion, by succouring distressed Damzels, laying hand on the pommell of his sword, he said in loud and intelligible words: Let no person of whatsoever state or condition he be, presume to follow the fair Marcela, under pain of falling into my furious indignation. Shee hath shewn by cleer and sufficient reasons, the little or no fault she had in Crisostomes death, and how far she lives from meaning to condescend to the desires of any of her Lovers; for which respect it is just, that instead of being pursued and persecuted, she be honoured and esteemed by all the good men of the world; for she shews in it, that it is only she alone that lives therein with honest intention. Now whether it was through Don-Quixotes menaces, or whether because Ambrosio requested them to con clude with the obligation they ought to their good friend: none of the Sheepheards moved or departed from thence untill the grave being made, and Crisostomes Papers burned, they laid the body into it, with many tears of the beholders. They shut the Sepulchre with a great stone, untill a Monument were wrought, which Ambrosio said he went to have made, with an Epitaph to this sense. HEre, of a loving Swain, The Frozen Carkasse lies; Who was a Heard likewise, And dyed through disdain. Stern rigour hath him slain, Of a coy fair ingrate, By whom love doth dilate Her Tyrannie amain. They presently strewed on the grave many flowers and boughs, and every one con doling a while with his friend Ambrosio, did afterward bid him farewell, and departed. The like did Vivaldo and his companion: And Don-Quixote, bidding his Hoste and the Travellers adieu, they requested him to come with them to Sivill, because it was a place so fit for the finding of Adventures, as in every street and corner thereof are offer ed more then in any other place whatsoever. Don-Quixote rendred them thanks for their advice, and the good will they seemed to have to gratifie him, and said, he neither ought nor would goe to Sivill, untill he had freed all those Mountains of Theeves and Robbers, whereof, as fame ran, they were full. The Travellers perceiving his good intention, would not importune him more; but bidding him again farewell, they departed, and followed on their journey; in which they wanted not matter of dis course, as well of the History of Marcela and Crisostome, as of the follies of Don-Quixote, who determined to goe in the search of the Sheepheardesse Marcela, and offer unto her, all that he was able to doe in her service: But it befell him not as he thought, as shall be rehearsed in the discourse of this true Historie. Giving end here to the second Part.