French fiction -- Translations into English; Italian fiction -- Translations into English
began to say: “Ah infortunate Gentleman, thou payest wel the
vsury of thy pleasures past when thou diddest lyue at lyberty,
free from those trauayles which now do put thee to death,
without suffering thee to dy. Oh happy, and more than happy had
I ben, if inconstant Fortune had not deuised this treason,
wherein I am surprised and caught, and yet no raunsome can
redeeme from prison, but the most miserable death that euer
poore louer suffred. Ah Mistresse, I knowe well that Zilia
esteemeth not my Letters, ne yet regardeth my loue, I confesse
that I haue done you wrong by thus abusing your honest amity,
for the solace of my payne. Ah fickle loue, what foole is hee
which doth commit hymselfe to the rage and fury of the Waues of
thy foming and tempestuous Seas? Alas I am entred in, with
great, and gladsome cheere, through the glistering shew before
myne eyes of the faynt shining Sunne beames, whereunto as soone
as I made sayle, the same denied me light of purpose to thrust
me forth into a thousand winds, tempests, and raging stormes of
Rayne. By meanes whereof I see no meane at all to hope for end
of my mishaps: and mutche lesse the shipwracke that sodainely
may rid me from this daunger more intollerable, than if I were
ouerwhelmed wythin the bottomlesse depth of the mayne Ocean. Ah
deceyuer and wily Souldiour, why hast thou made me enterprise
the voyage farre of from thy solitudes and Wildernesse, to geue
me ouer in the middest of my necessity? Is this thy maner
towards them which franckly followe thy tract, and pleasauntly
subdue themselues to thy trayterous follies? At least wyse if I
sawe some hope of health would indure without complaynt thereof:
yea, and it were a more daungerous tempest. But O good God, what
is he of whom I speake? Of whom do I attend for solace and
releefe? Of him truely which is borne for the ouerthrow of men.
Of whom hope I for health? Of the most noysom poyson that euer
was mingled with the subtilest druggs that euer were. Whom shall
I take to be my Patron? He which is in ambush traiterously to
catch me, that he may martir me worsse than he hath done before.
Ah cruell Dame, that measurest so euill, the good will of him
that neuer purposed to trespasse the least of thy
commaundements. Ah, that thy beauty should finde a Subiect so
stubborne in thee, to torment them that loue and honor thee.
O maigre and vnkinde recompence, to expell good seruaunts that
be affectionate to a seruice so iust and honest. Ah Basiliske,
coloured ouer with pleasure and swetnesse, how hath thy sight
dispersed his poyson throughout mine heart? At least wise if I
had some drugge to repell thy force, I should liue at ease, and
that without this sute and trouble. But I feele and proue that
this sentence is more than true:
No physicke hearbes the griefe of loue can cure,
Ne yet no drugge that payne can well assure.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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