Can there be good that vies With my tormenting ill, Can any earthly ill such anguish give? For each of them doth rise Far beyond human skill, And without her in living death I live, In disdain I revive My faith, and there 'tis found Burnt with the chilly cold. What vanity behold, The unwonted sorrow that my soul doth wound! Can it be equal, see, Unto the ill that fain would greater be? But who is he who stirs The interwoven boughs Of this round-crested myrtle, thick and green? OROMPO. A shepherd who avers, Reasoning from his woes, Founding his words upon the truth therein, That it must needs be seen His sorrow doth surpass The sorrow thou dost feel, The higher thou mayst raise it, Exalt it, and appraise it. MARS. Conquered wilt thou remain in such a deal, Orompo, friend so true. And thou thyself shalt witness be thereto. If of my agonies, If of my maddening ill, The very smallest part thou didst but know, Thy vanities would cease, For thou wouldst see that still My sufferings all are true, and thine but show. OROMPO. Deem thy mysterious woe A phantom of the mind, Than mine, that doth distress My life, reckon thine less, For I will save thee from thine error blind, And the dear truth reveal, That thy ill is a shadow, mine is real. But, lo! the voice I hear Of Crisio, sounding plain. A shepherd he, whose views with thine agree, To him let us give ear, For his distressful pain Maketh him swell with pride, as thine doth thee. MARS. To-day time offers me Place and occasion where I can display to both And prove to you the truth That only I misfortune know and care. OROMPO. Marsilio, now attend Unto the voice and sad theme of thy friend. CRISIO. Ah! hard oppressive absence, sad and drear, How far must he have been from knowing thee, Who did thy force and violence compare To death's invincible supremacy! For when death doth pronounce his doom severe, What then can he do more, so weak is he, That to undo the knot and stoutest tether That holdeth soul and body firm together?