You that alone are the Clarissimi, And the whole gen'rous state of Venice be, It shall not be recorded, Sanazar Shall boast enthron'd alone this new made star; All wrath and storms do end in calms and praise. A Dialogue betwixt Cordanus and Amoret, Cord. DISTRESSED pilgrim, whose dark clouded eyes * This Dialogue is taken from Lawes's First Book of Ayres, and compared with a MS. copy in an old miscellaneous volume in the possession of the editor. Amor. What pitying voice I hear, Calls back my flying steps? Cord. Pr'ythee draw near Amor. I shall, but say, kind swain, what doth become Of a lost heart, ere to Elysium Cord. It wounded walks? First it does freely fly Into the pleasures of a lover's eye, But once condemn'd to scorn it fetter'd lies Amor. I pity its sad fate, since its offence Was but for love, can't tears recall it thence? Cord. O no, such tears as do for pity call, She proudly scorns, and glories at their fall. Amor. Since neither sighs nor tears, kind shepherd tell, Will not a kiss prevail? Cord. Thou may'st as well Court Echo with a kiss. Amor. Can no art move A sacred violence to make her love? Cord. O no, 'tis only Destiny and Fate Fashions our wills, either to love or hate. Amor. Then, captive heart, since that no human spell Hath pow'r to grasp thee his, farewell,-fare well. CHORUS. Lost hearts, like lambs drove from their folds by fears, May back return by chance, but ne'er by tears. TRANSLATIONS. SANAZARI HEXASTICON. IN Adriatic waves, when Neptune saw IN VIRGILIUM. PENTADII. A swain, hind, knight; I fed, till'd, did command Goats, fields, my foes; with leaves, a spade, my hand. DE SCEVOLA. The hand by which no king but serjeant dies, The prince admires the hero, quits his pains, Rome's more oblig'd to flames, than arms or pow'r, DE CATONE. The world o'ercome, victorious Cæsar, he That conquer'd all; great Cato, could not thee. ANOTHER. One stab could not fierce Cato's life untie; Open, through which his mighty soul might stray. That Cato's hand more than his sword could do. ANOTHER. The hand of sacred Cato bade to tear His breast, did start, and the made wound forbear, ANOTHER. What doubt'st thou, hand? Sad Cato, 'tis to kill; But he'll be free, sure, hand, thou doubt'st not still; Cato alive 'tis just all men be free, Nor conquers he himself now if he die. PENTADII. It is not, you're deceiv'd, it is not bliss To have your hands with rubies bright to glow, Nor in one vault hoard all your magazine, But at no coward's fate t'have frighted been, He that dares this, nothing to him's unfit, Tully, to thee, Rome's eloquent sole heir, Juvencius, thy fair sweet eyes, Three hundred thousand times I'd kiss, The harvest of our kisses bears. |