But since 'tis to my strength impossible, And but an empty wish I give to prove All that my loyal fancy doth conceal, Let us consider if 'tis possible My feeble ill-contented hand to move, And some vague sign of joy thereby reveal; Herein my power I feel So powerless, that thou thine ears must lend, And to the bitter groans And agonising moans That issue from a breast despised, attend; Upon that breast fire, air, and earth, and sea Make war unceasingly, Conspiring all together for its pain, Which its sad destiny Doth bound, and its small fortune doth contain. Were this not so in truth, an easy thing It were through pleasure's realm one's steps to bend, And countless pleasures to the mind restore, The mountain, strand, or river picturing. Not Love, but fortune, fate and chance did lend Their wealth of glory to a shepherd poor: But Time a triumph o'er This sweet tale claims, and of it doth remain Alone a feeble shadow, Which doth the thought o'ershadow That thinks on it the more, and fills with pain. Such is the fitting plight of all mankind! The pleasure we designed In a few hours is changed to sore displeasure, And no one will e'er shall find In many years a firm and lasting pleasure. Now let the idle thought revolve on high, Let it ascend or descend to the abyss, And in a moment run from east to west, 'Twill say, however much it sweat and ply Its strength, escaping from its miseries, Set in dread hell, or Heaven loftiest: "Oh thrice and four times blest And blest and blest again with happiness, The simple herdsman who, With his poor sheep and few, Liveth with more content and peacefulness Than Crassus rich or Midas in his greed, Since the life he doth lead, A shepherd's life, of healthy simple powers, Doth make him take no heed Of this false, wretched, courtly life of ours."