thousand times he wished to discover to Galatea what he kept concealed with so much difficulty. But Galatea's discretion well knew from the movements of his face what Elicio had in his mind; and she gave such an expression to hers that the words of the love-sick shepherd froze in his mouth, and he rested content with the mere pleasure of that first step: for it seemed to him that he was wronging Galatea's modesty in treating of things that might in some way have the semblance of not being so modest, that modesty itself might take their form. With these up and downs the shepherd passed his life so miserably that, at times, he would have counted as gain the evil of losing her, if only he might not feel the pain which it caused him not to win her. And so one day, having set himself to consider his varied thoughts, in the midst of a delightful meadow, invited by the solitude and by the murmur of a delightful streamlet that ran through the plain, he took from his wallet a polished rebeck (singing to the sound of which he was wont to communicate his plaints to Heaven), and with a voice of exceeding beauty sang the following verses: Amorous fancy, gently ride On the breeze if thou wouldst show That I only am thy guide, Lest disdain should bring thee low, Or contentment fill with pride. Do thou choose a mean, if fate Grants thee choice amidst thy plight, Neither seek to flee delight Nor yet strive to bar the gate 'Gainst the woe of Love's dark night. If it be thy wish that I Of my life the course should run, Take it not in wrath: on high Raise it not, where hope is none, Whence it can but fall to die. If presumption lead astray, And so lofty be thine aim, This at last thy course will stay:-- Either thou wilt come to shame, Or my heart thy debts will pay. Born therein, thy sinning lay In thy birth; the guilt was thine, Yet for thee the heart must pay. If to keep thee I design, 'Tis in vain, thou fleest away. If thou stayest not thy flight, Wherewith thou dost mount the skies (Should but fate thy fortunes blight) Thou wilt plunge in deep abyss Thy repose and my delight. Who to fate, thou mayst declare, Yields himself, does well: his spirit, Spurring on to do and dare, Not as folly but as merit Will be counted everywhere. To aspire so loftily, Yearning thus to reach the goal, Peerless glory 'tis to thee,-- All the more when heart and soul Do with the design agree.