'Twere right that I should of myself complain, Nor to thee give the blame, That 'gainst thy fire I did not strive to fight. I yielded, and the wind, amidst my shame, That slept, I roused amain Even the wind of chance with furious might. A just decree and right Hath Heaven pronounced against me that I die; This only fear have I, Amidst my luckless fate and hapless doom, Misfortune will not end e'en in the tomb. Thou, sweetest friend, and thou, my sweetest foe, Timbrio, Nisida fair, Happy and hapless both? What unjust power Of ruthless fate, what unrelenting star, Enemy of my woe, Hard and unkind, hath in this evil hour Parted us evermore? Oh wretched and unstable lot of man! How soon to sudden pain Is changed our joy, that swiftly flies away, And cloudy night doth follow cloudless day! What man will put his trust with might and main In the instability And in the change, pervading human things? On hasty pinions time away doth flee And draweth in its train The hope of him who weeps, and him who sings. Whenever Heaven brings Its favour, 'tis to him, in holy love Raising to Heaven above The soul dissolved in heavenly passion's fire, To him that doth nor loss nor gain desire. Here, gracious Lord, with all my power I raise To holy Heaven on high My hands, my eyes, my thoughts, in prayer always; My soul doth hope thereby To see its ceaseless mourning turned to praise. With a deep sigh, the secluded youth, who was within the hermitage, ended his mournful song, and the shepherds, perceiving that he was not going on, without more delay, went in all together, and saw there, at one end, sitting on a hard stone, a comely and graceful youth, apparently two and twenty years of age, clad in a rough kersey, his feet unshod and his body girt with a coarse rope, which served him as belt. His head was drooping on one side, one hand clutched the portion of the tunic over his heart, the other arm fell limply on the other side. As they saw him in this plight, and as he had made no movement on the entry of the shepherds, they clearly recognised that he had fainted, as was the truth, for his deep brooding over his sorrows often brought him to such a pass. Erastro went up to him, and seizing him roughly by the arm, made him come to himself, though so dazed that he seemed to be waking from a heavy sleep; which tokens of grief caused no small grief in those who witnessed it, and straightway Erastro said to him: 'What is it, sir, that your troubled breast feels? Do not fail to tell it, for you have before you those who will not refuse any trouble to give relief to yours.'