But if all the toil is vain Of my mourning and my sigh, And I still cease not my cry, With my more than human pain What on earth can hope to vie? Dead the cause is of thy grief, This, Orompo, brings relief, And thy sorrow doth suppress; But when my grief most doth press On me, 'tis beyond belief. CRISIO. Once the fruit that was the dower Of my ceaseless adoration I held in its ripest hour; Ere I tasted it, occasion Came and snatched it from my power: I above the rest the name Of unfortunate can claim, Since to suffering I shall come, For no longer lies my doom Where I left my soul aflame. When death robs us of our bliss, We for ever from it part, And we find relief in this. Time can soften e'en the heart Hard and firm against Love's cries. But in absence we the pain Of death, jealousy, disdain, Feel with ne'er a glimpse of gladness,-- Strange it is--hence fear and sadness With the absent one remain. When the hope at hand is near, And the accomplishment delays, Harder is the pain we bear, And affliction reacheth where Hope doth never lift its gaze; In the lesser pangs ye feel 'Tis the remedy of your ill Not to hope for remedy, But this solace faileth me, For the pangs of absence kill. ORFENIO. Lo, the fruit that had been sown By my toil that had no end, When to sweetness it had grown, Was by destiny my friend Given to me for my own. Scarce to this unheard of pass Could I come, when I, alas! Came the bitter truth to know, That I should but grief and woe From that happiness amass. In my hand the fruit I hold, And to hold it wearies me, For amidst my woes untold In the largest ear I see A worm gnawing, fierce and bold; I abhor what I adore, And that which doth life restore Brings death; for myself I shape Winding mazes, whence escape Is denied for evermore.