CARINO

True (good Ʋ ranio ) I by proof can tell, That young, did leave my father's house, and sought Strange places out, and now turn home gram heard, That erst departed hence with golden locks; Yet is our native soil sweet unto him That hath his sense: Nature does make it deer, Like to the Adamant, whom though the Matrinet Carry far hence, sometime where as the Sun Is born, and sometime where it die; yet still The hidden virtue where with it beholds, The Northern Pole it never does forgo: So he that goes far from his native soil, And often times in stranger land does dwell, Yet he retains the love he to it boar. Oh my Arcadia, now I greet thy ground, And welcome good Ʋ ranio, for t'is meet You do partake my joys, as you have done my toil. Thou knowest my deer Mirtillo, whom the heavens Have given me: for my Son came hither sick, Here to get health, according to the Oracle, Which said only Arcadia could restore it him: Two months he hath been here, and I not able to Abide that stay, went to the Oracle To know of his return: which answered thus. Return thou to thy Country, where thou shalt Live merrily with thy Mirtillo deer: Heavens have determined great things of him; Nor shalt thou laugh but in Arcadia. Thou then my deer companion, merry be, Thou hast a share in all my good, nor will Carino smile, if my Ʋ ranio grieve. A youthful love I unto Music boar, And greediness of foreign fame, disdaining that Arcadia only should me praise, made me Seek out Eli and Pisa famoue so, Where I saw glorious Aegen crowned with Baize, With Purple next to Virtue evermore; So that he Ph bus seemed: when I devout Unto his pour did consecrate my Lute: Then left I Pisa, and to M cen went, And afterwards to Argos, where I was At first, adored Like a God: but twilbe too Too troublesome to tell the story of my life. I many Fortune's tried, sometime disdained, Sometime respected Like a power divine: Now rich, then poor; now down, then up aloft: But in the change of place, my Fortune's never changed, I learned to know and sighs my former liberty; And leaving Argos, I returned to My homely Bower I in Elidis had: Where Gods be praised) I did Mirtillo buy, Who since, hath comforted all mine annoys. WHat Countrymen are here, so bravely furnished Almost all in a Livery? O what a show Is here? how rich, how full of pome it is? Trust me, I think it is some Sacrifice. This is some Sacrifice, but where's the holocaust? I'll see this wretches face, And then depart: for pity will not let me stay. Oh wretch! what do I see? My son Mirtillo, Is not this my son? It is even so. What dost thou sacred Priest? Oh my Mirtillo, how camest thou to this? I never thought to-have thee embraced thus. Dear to thee Gods am also I, that by Their good direction hither came even now. Then courteous Priest, before thy sword does light Upon his neck, Why die this wretched Boy? I, why the Goddess thou adorest, beseech thee tell? Die for and other? then I for him will die: For pity then, thy falling blow direct, In stead of his, upon this wretched neck. Here was I born, , and father of this wretch. If thou a father Wertenberg? Oh let me kiss him yet before he die. Art thou so cruel son? Thou wilt not answer thy sad father once. I cry you mercy holy sacred Priest. Tempestius urie never waigned rage, In breasts magnanimus, but that one blast Of Generous effect could cool the same: But it I can not grace obtain, let me Find justice yet, you can not that deny, Law makers be not freed from the Laws: I ask you justice, justice grant me then, You are unjust, if you Mirtillo kill. Did you not tell me it unlawful was To sacrifice a Strangers blood He is a Stranger you would sacrifice. Let it suffice, and seek no further now. Oft he least knows, that most would understand. I call him Stranger, for I God him not. He is my son, though I begotten him not. I said he was my son, not born of me. If I were mad, I should not feel my grief. A lying man will never tell the truth. The son of love, and not of nature he's. With words and not with truth, I am conuin'st. You will repent it. I call to witness men and Gods. Since you'll not hear me, hear me heaven and earth. Mirtill a stranger is, and not my son, You do profane your holy sacrifice. I cannot tell you, I am sure not I. O no. Because I from his cradle have him nourished still, And ever loved him Like my son. A courteous stranger in gave me him. I gave him. I gave him that which I with him had found. In a low hold, Of dainty Mutle trees upon Alpheus bank: And for this cause Mirtillo I him called. Of many sorts. A speedy Torrent brought him to this hold, And left him in the bosom of a little I'll, On every side defended with the stream. Laid in a cradle Like a little ship, With other stuff the waters wound together, He was safe brought by chance unto this hold. In a cradle laid. I but a tender child. Cast up your cou to Is it not nineteen years since the great flood? So long t'is since. He knows not what to say: O wicked act, overcome yet will not yield: Thinking t'ourstrip me in his wit, as much As in his force, I hear him murmur, Yet he nill bewray that he convinced is. Will you then execute the wicked sacrifice? If since I travailed, my Muse had had As good a cause to laugh as had to weep, Perhaps my style would have been fit to-have sung The arms, and honours, of my noble Lord, So that he needed not to have envied The brave Meonian trumpet of Achilles fame. I might have made my Countries brow, been girded With happy Laurel too: But too inhumane is this age, And too unhappy gui to of Poetry. The Swans desire a quiet nest, a gentle air, Pernassu never knew this biting care. Who quarrels with his fate and fortune still, His voice must needs be hoarse, his song but ill: But now t'is time to seek Mirtillo out. O how this Country's changed! I scarcely know't: But Strangers never want a guide that have a tongue, We will inquire to the next harbour house, Where thou thy weary limbs mayest well repose. WHich plain I first (my child) of thee? thy life Or honesty? I'll plain thine honesty, Because thy fire (though mortal) honest was: And in thy steed my life I'll plain and spend, Of thy life and thine honesty to see and end. Oh Montane, only thou with thy devices And ill- und Oracles, and with thy love, And proud despiser of my daughter, to this end, Hast brought my child. O doubtful Oracles, How vain you be? and honesty gainst love In youthful hearts a weak defence does prove, A woman whom no match hath ever sought, Is evil guarded from this common thought. If I be not deceived, I see a thing that by his back seems a man: He kneels: he is perhaps the holocaust. Oh wretch 'tis so, the Priest holds him by th'ead: And hast thou not unhappy country yet, After so many years heavens rage appeased? More then thou thinkest. And will you me deny That which you grant another man? How if I were not so? I and Arcadian am. I cannot tell. Nor that know I. He seemed a shepherd by his clothes and face, Of middle stature, of black hair his beard And eyebrows were exceeding thick. Him whom you talk withal he did not only seem, But 'tis the same, who thought be twenty years ago, Hath not a whit altered his ancient look. Him can I put in mind. I your commandment willingly obey. I come. This same is he. Dost not remember in the temple of Olimpich Jove, Having had answer of the Oracle, And being ready to depart, I met with thee, And asked thee of the Oracle, which thou declaredst, After I took thee home unto my house, Where didst thou not give me and Infant child, Which in a cradle thou hadst lately found? This is that very child, Which ever since I Like mine own have kept, And at these Altars must be sacrificed. All this is true, for this he told me then. What rests then, would you more proof then this? Art thou Mirtilloes father then? how lost you him? Eternal providence which with thy counsel hast Brought all these occurrents to this only point, Th'art great with child of some huge monstrous birth, Either great good or ill thou wilt bring forth. Why will the father murder then the son? Oh wicked Fates, me whither have you brought? Behold the monster horrible this Fate brings forth. Oh cruel chance ( Mirtillo ) o my life. Is this that which the Oracle told of thee? Thus in my native soil hast thou me happy made: Oh son of me poor old and wretched man, Lately my hope, my life, now my despair and death. Wretched old man, as greater flames do dim The lesser lights, even so the sorrow I Do of thy grief conceive, hath put out mine, Thy case alone deserves pity now. SOftly my son, and set thy feet secure, Thou must uphold me in this rugged way, Thou art my bodies eye, I am thy minds, And when thou comest before the Priest, there stay, God grant he bring us happy news. That which he says is true. I am Carino his father thought till now. And unto Silvio may she give her faith, So said thy servant, was Mirtillo called, Though I more liked Mirtillo him to name. In love Mirtilloes father, and your brother, In reverence a servant to you both: And since you are so kind to me, I pray you then Bid my companion welcome for my sake. Eternal heavenly powers, How diverse are your high untrodden ways By which your favours do on us descend? From those same crook't deceitful paths whereby Our thoughts would fame mount up into the sky? LInco belike the spiteful Sil io When least he meant, a Lover is become, But what became of her? Who would have thought to-have waxed poor in gold I thought to-have found in royal Paliaces People of more humanity, then here, Which is the noble ornament of worthy sprights; But I ( Ʋ r io ) found the contrary: People in name and words right curtuous, But in good deeds most arse, and Pities foes: People in face, gentle and pleasant still; But fiercer then th'outr gious swelling Sea: People with countenance all of charity, But thoroughly Covetous, and fraught with Envy: The greater shows they make, the less troth they mean That which is virtue otherwhere, is there but vice: Uprightest deeds, true love, pity sincere, faith, of hand and heart, A High most innocent; these they esteem But cowards still, and men of silly wits: Follies and vanities, that are ridiculous, Coosonage, lying, theft, and rapine clad: In holiness, by others downfalls and their lose, Rich still to grow, to build their reputation On others infamy, to lay five snares To trap the innocent; these are the virtues of that place. No merit, worth, reverence of age, Of law, or of degree, no reins of shame, Respect of love or blood, nor memory Of any good received: and to conclude, nothing so reverend, pure, or joust can be, That seems forbidden to these gulfs of pride, Of honour so ambitious: so covetous Of getting still. Now I that always lived Unwary of their snares, and in my forehead had All my thoughts written, my heart discovered; You well may judge, I was and open mark To the suspicious shafts of envious folks. Yet do I say thou dost a deed unjust.