OLINDA

Glaucus ; to thee I frendlesse maid, In these last gifts my vows have paid: These once Olinda's, now are thine, This net, and hook, this rod, and line: Thou knowest, why here my sports I give thee, Hence came my joys, and here they leave me. The less I needs to pay: Gladucilla I cannot mourn, when I am married. Peace peace my Cosma, thou wouldst Have me mad with reason! Thinkest thou me sense less friend? Why my Glaucilla I see thy drowned eyes, I feel thy kind embracements, and which thou seest not, Nor feelest, I feel and see, more mirth and joy Spring in my heart; then if I now were leading To the best bed that Sicily affords me. Glaucilla if there were but fit occasion That I might show thee this tormented heart It would affright thee friend to hear me tell How many death's live in so narrow Hell. Prithee Glaucilla Do not thus search my souls deep rankling wound Which thou canst never help when thou hast found. Th'art such a mistress in thy loving art That all in vain I hide my oue sick heart And yet as vain to open't now 'tis hid. I would he did. Yes and with him I. Hear then and who so ere maiyst be a bride Learn this of me to hate thy maiden pride. Atyches though knowest? The same Almost a year since he came to this town When finding me fishing along the shore Silent he angles by me, till at length Seeing me take a sta fish, and fling't away He straight demands why I refused that pray The cause I said was hate, he thus replied Alas poor fish how wretch'ed is your fate When you are killed for love saved but for hate; Yet then that fish much worse the fisher swain Who for his love by hate is causeless slain, But soon as love he named, I straight was parting He holding me thus speaks; stay Nymph and hear I bring thee news which well deserves thine ear He which most loves thee and thou hatest most Thalander (at his name my guilty heart Ashamed of it self did in me start) He thus went on: Thalander's dead and dying By oath and all his love swo e me to see thee With these few words: Thalander quite forsaken Would send to thee what thou from him hast taken All life and health, and never his love re oouing Wishes thee a friend more happy and as loving And with this prayer these legacies he sends thee This pipe his mother Cir es gift, to bind With this soft whistle the loud whistling wind And with this pipe he left this precious ring Whose virtues cuers a venomous tooth or sting Glaucilla why should I lie I took them as spoils from a slain enemio, And or these gifts (says he) his last demand Was Thy , that I might kiss thy hand: The last, the only gift thou canst impart To such, so loving, and now dying heart I grant; be gone, upon the Ring spy A Ruby cut most artificially, Wherein was framed a youth in fire consuming, And owned within it as the Ring I turn, I found these words, Alive or dead, I burn. But o those feigned flames, such strange desires, Such true, such lasting, never-quenched fires Have kindled in my breast, that all the Art Of Triphons self cannot allay my smart: Ah Glaucilla, than scornful proud Olinda ; Which at so sweet a love a mockery made, Who scorned the true Thalander, loves his shade, Whose thousand graces living could not turn me, His ashes now he's dead to ashes, burn me. My hand he married there, my heart ah never. Glaucilla, I love him for his love to me, For such his venture, for such his victory, But most, because in love he is my rival, Because he's Like and love, my Love Thalander. Ah, if my life will please him, let him take it, He gave it me and I would feign forsake it. Had it been mine to give, my wretched heart, Not worth his dangerous fight, I would impart But that is thine, Thalander thine for ever With me 'tis buried and arise shall never. And wherefore serves this glass? This is a dessamour Cosma lately gave me. Thou worthy to daughter of the greatest light, Most powerful Circe, and thon honoured Glaucus, What duty a poor fisher maid may give you, In thanks, and vows, and holy offerings, Shall still be ready at your sacred altars. Thalander, now to thee, what sacrifice? What offerings may appease thy wronged love? What have I but my self? ah worthless prize Of such, so tried, and so unmoved a faith. Ah, could I spend my body, wear my soul, And then resume another soul and body, And then consume that soul and body for thee, All would not pay the use of half my debt. How pale he looks, how strangely altered! Is he not dead? no, no, his pulse is quick, His heart is strong, and rising, in his heat, Threatens with strokes, my churlish hand to beat: Nature, how couldst in one so firmly tie Perpetual motion to fixed constancy? How can this wonder fallen in Notion, A heart unmoved, yet still in motion! Alas he weeps, I hope his grief and fears Swim fast away in those sad streaming tears. Th'ast mourned enough, more justly may I weep, Leave me thy tears, rest thou and sweetly sleep. Nay whither flies Thalander ? here's Olinda : Tell me why waked the substance thou eschewest Whose shadow in a dream thou gladly viewest. Thou dreamest still Thalander ! I live. So would not I: believe me friend, I live. If me thou wilt not, trust thy sense, thy eyes. Credit thy touch. Thou fliest, thou art the shadow love not I: Thalander, take this, 'tis thine for ever, Nothing but death, nor death this knot shall sever. What says Thalander ? does he yet believe me? Thalander, heart and hand had now been cold but for, Glaucilla, she preventing Cosma, tempered the poisonous vial, changing death for sleep, so gave me life, thee love. Tell me, my love, canst thou such wrongs forgive me? I never more will grieve you. Canst thou forget my hate, my former blindness? If not, boldly revenge my rash unkindness. Pierce this vile heart my souls ungrateful centre, Pierce with thy dart where loves dart could not enter. True, true my love, 'tis vowed a temple now, Where ever shall be worshipped love and thou. What my Thalander, ever With thee to life or death, but from thee never. For us, we judge not of your hard intent, But reckon your joys fatal instrument. 'Tis beyond art, who there can give relief. Where patients hate the cure, more then the grief? Decaeus ; no fear within this breast is lying. Who living die, fears not to live by dying. My deer, my deer Thalander.