OROMPO. Ere yet on earth I came, methinks e'en then Misfortune, pain, and misery, were mine. ORFENIO. In me divine the greatest of ill-fortune. CRISIO. Thy ill is fortune, when to mine compared. MARS. When it is paired with my mysterious ill, The wound that kills you is but glory plain. OROMPO. This tangled skein will soon be very clear, When bright and clear my grief it doth reveal. Let none conceal the pain his breast within, For I the tale of mine do now begin. In good ground my hopes were sown, Goodly fruit they promised then, But when their desire was known, And their willingness was shown, Heaven changed their fruit to pain. I beheld their wondrous flower, Eager happiness to shower On me--thousand proofs it gave-- Death that envious did it crave Plucked it in that very hour. Like the labourer was I, Who doth toil without relief And with lingering energy, Winning from his destiny But the bitter fruit of grief: Destiny doth take away All hope of a better day, For the Heaven that to him brings Confidence of better things It beneath the earth did lay. If to this pass I attain, That e'en now I live, despairing Whether I shall glory gain. Since I suffer beyond bearing, 'Tis a certain truth and plain: That amidst the darkest gloom Hope assures that there shall come Yet a happier, brighter dawn. Woe for him, whose hope is gone, Buried in the hopeless tomb. MARS. From mine eyes the tear-drops fall On a spot where many a thorn, Many a bramble, hath been born To my hurt, for, once and all, They my loving heart have torn: I am luckless, yes, 'tis I, Though my cheeks were never dry For a moment in my grief, Yet nor fruit, nor flower, nor leaf, Have I won, howe'er I try. For my bosom would be stilled, If I might a token see Of some gain, small though it be; Though it never were fulfilled, I should win felicity: For the worth I should behold Of my fond persistence bold Over her who doth so scorn, That she at my chill doth burn, At my fire is chilly cold.