'Ah water clear and cool, how little avails your coldness to temper the fire I feel in my soul! Vain will it be to hope from you--or indeed from all the waters the mighty ocean holds--the remedy I need; for if all were applied to the glowing passion that consumes me, you would produce the same effect as do a few drops on the glowing forge which but increase the flame the more. Ah, sad eyes, cause of my ruin! to how lofty a height did I raise you for so great a fall! Ah fortune, enemy of my repose! with what haste didst thou hurl me from the pinnacle of my joy to the abyss of misery wherein I am! Ah cruel sister! how came it that Artidoro's meek and loving presence did not appease the anger of your breast devoid of love? What words could he say to you that you should give him so harsh and cruel a reply? It seems clear, sister, that you did not esteem him as much as I; for, if it were so, you would in truth have shown as much meekness as he obedience to you.' All that the shepherdess said she mingled with such tears, that no heart could listen to her and not be moved to compassion; and after she had calmed her sorrowing breast for a while, to the sound of the water gently flowing by, she sang with sweet and dainty voice this gloss, adapting to her purpose an ancient verse: _Hope hath fled and will not stay One thought only brings delight: Time that passes swift of flight Soon my life will take away._ Two things, all the world among, Help the lover to attain All that doth to Love belong: E'en desire the good to gain, Hope that makes the coward strong. Both within my bosom lay. No, 'twas in my stricken soul That they lurked to take away My desire to reach the goal. _Hope hath fled and will not stay._ Though desire should cease to be, What time hope is on the wane, Yet 'tis not the same in me. My desire doth wax amain, Though my hope away doth flee. 'Gainst the wounds my soul that blight I can take nor care nor thought, Martyr to my hapless plight, In the school where Love hath taught, _One thought only brings delight_. Scarce the blessing from on high Had unto my fancy come, When, as gently they passed by, Heaven, fate, and bitter doom, With it from my soul did fly. Whoso for my grievous plight Fain would mourn, let him strike sail, Into the haven of delight Glide more gently 'fore the gale _Than Time that passes swift of flight_.