'Little will be lost, shepherds, in listening to the luckless Mireno, who is without doubt the shepherd that is singing, and whom fortune has brought to such a pass that I fancy he hopes for nothing in the way of his happiness.' 'How can he hope for it,' said Erastro, 'if to-morrow Daranio marries the shepherdess Silveria, whom he thought to wed? But in the end Daranio's wealth has had more power with Silveria's parents than the abilities of Mireno.' 'You speak truth,' replied Elicio: 'but with Silveria the love she knew Mireno had for her should have had more power than any treasure; the more so that Mireno is not so poor that his poverty would be remarked, though Silveria were to wed him.' Through these remarks which Elicio and Erastro uttered, the desire to learn what Mireno was singing increased in the shepherds; and so Silerio begged that no more might be said, and all with attentive ears stopped to listen to him. He, distressed by Silveria's ingratitude, seeing that next day she was wedding Daranio, with the rage and grief this deed caused him, had gone forth from his house accompanied only by his rebeck: and invited by the solitude and silence of a tiny little meadow which was hard by the walls of the village, and trusting that on a night so peaceful no one would listen to him, he sat down at the foot of a tree, and tuning his rebeck was singing in this wise: MIRENO. Oh cloudless sky, that with so many eyes O'er all the world the thefts of Love beholdest, And in thy course dost fill with joy or grief Him who to their sweet cause his agonies Tells 'midst thy stillness, or whom thou withholdest From such delight, nor offerest him relief, If yet with thee be chief Kindness for me perchance, since now indeed In speech alone contentment must I find, Thou, knowing all my mind, My words--it is not much I ask--may'st heed; For, see, my voice of woe Shall with my sorrowing soul die 'neath the blow. Ah now my wearied voice, my woeful cry, Scarce, scarce, will now offend the empty air; For I at last unto this pass am brought, That to the winds that angry hasten by, Love casts my hopes, and in another's care Hath placed the bliss that I deserving sought, The fruit my loving thought Did sow, the fruit watered by wearied tears By his triumphant hands will gathered be, And his the victory, Who was in fortune rich beyond his peers, But in deserving poor-- 'Tis fortune smooths the rough and makes it sure.