The Amyntas of Tasso

Front matter

THE

ΑΜΥΝΤΑS

OF

Dedication

TO THE

RIGHT HONOURABLE

THE

Preface

THE

PREFACE.

A we have no tolerable translation of Tasso's Amyntas, I flatter myself that the following one will meet with a favourable reception from the publick. The poem is deemed, by all good judges, excellent in it's kind. It was written by one of the greatest poets the world ever saw, when his mind was in the maturity of it's vigour. He was well acquainted with the best models of pastoral writing; his soul felt their beauties: and as his feelings were delicate, and comprehensive, he was not a servile imitator; he revered the laws of his predecessors, and he caught their beauties; but he enriched his work with sentiments, and pictures of his own tender and warm imagination. The Amyntas, therefore, may, in just metaphor, be stiled, a garland composed of the choicest flowers of Arcadia.

Tasso, indeed, has been blasphemed by hardy, and profane mouths. Boileau, one of the con- temptible French rhymers, talked impertinently about the tinsel of Tasso; and the conceit has been echoed by criticks as frigid as himself. Such weak assailants cannot shake the reputation of Tasso; for it is founded upon a rock. A Colossus in genius must always expect a shower of harmless Lilliputian arrows. Homer had his Zoïlus, and Pope his Dennis, two generals of these pigmy troops. Nay, Pope to this day, is not allowed to be a poet by some of his learned Aristotelian countrymen; those passionate, and delirious admirers of antiquity, who mistake prejudice for rapture; and are fond of a book because it is written in Greek characters, and because it is long, very long ago since it's author lived. Thus merely the rarity, the sanctifying mould, and the defaced inscription of a medal make it of more value, than the most precious jewel in the estimation of the doting virtuoso.

I beg pardon for this digression, which I shall close by venturing two assertions. I am far from pretending to dictate: I am now expressing my dislike of dictators. I am very sensible that my opinion, as mine, can be of no weight. But I am ingenuous; and I am strongly impressed with a feeling of what I am going to advance: therefore my boldness will be forgiven by all readers whom I would wish to please.

Tasso is a greater poet than Virgil. Pope will be admired as long as the English language is understood; and as long as the human breast glows, while it imbibes the sacred flame of poetry. An Englishman, who is sensible to the charms of the Muses, and free from prejudice, not bristled with Greek, however profound a Grecian he may be, would not so much regret the loss of the original Iliad, as of Pope's translation of that poem.

It may be objected to the Amyntas, especially in this free translation, that it hath sentiments by no means characteristick of rural life. But let me be permitted to observe, that if Tasso's Doric Muse appears sometimes in the buskin, she wears it not absurdly: his shep- herds were peculiar favourites of the Nine, and sometimes honoured with the company of learned, and polite patrons.

Thyrsis, in the second scene of the first act, prevails with Amyntas to relate to him the story of his love by these arguments;

10Et è ben degna La fedele amicitia, et il commune Studio de le Muse, ch' à me scuopra Ciò ch' à gli altri si cela6

“My faithful friendship well deserves the trust; and our converse with the Muses, which reveals objects to me that are concealed from vulgar minds."

Thyrsis went to the court of Ferrara; he met with a kind reception there; and the society of that court had the following effect upon him:

Sentii me far di mi stesso maggiore; Pien di nova vertù; pieno di nova Deitade: e cantai guerre, et heroi, Sdegnando pastoral ruvido carme. E se ben poi (come altrui piacque) fect. Ritorno à queste selve, io pur ritenni Parte di quello spirto; nè già suona La mia sampogna humil, come soleva; Mà di voce più altera, e più sonora, Emula de le trombe, empie le selve. >>Act i. Scene 2.

"On a sudden I grew greater than myself: I was fraught with new virtue and new inspiration. I sung of war, and heroes; and disdained the simple pastoral strain. And after my destiny had brought me back to these woods, I still retained a part of that spirit: nor has my pipe the humble sound it once had; but with a lofty and sonorous tone, it emulates the trumpet, and makes the forest ring."

Elpinus too, a principal character in this piece, had received very distinguished honours at court. He is represented as a great poet, and a great philosopher; the favourite of Apollo, and the counsellor of the afflicted. When Thyrsis is afraid that his friend Amyntas hath killed himfelf, he says;

8Io voglio irmene à l'antro Del faggio Elpino; ivi, s'è vivo, forse Şarà ridotto, ove sovente suole Raddolcir gli amarissimi martiri Al dolce suon de la sampogna chiara, Ch'ad udir trahe da gli alti monti i sassi; E correr sa di puro latti i fiumi; E stillar mele da le dure scorze. >>Act iii. Scene I.

"I will go to the cave of the sage Elpinus: there probably he will be, if he is yet alive: there his amorous pain hath often been soothed by the musick of the harmonious poet; whose pathetick flute draws the rocks from the mountains; makes the streams flow with milk, and honey drop from the oak."

It is the province of the poet to transport us into an agreeable, and blooming region of his own creating: this is his birth-right; the appellation of poet, with which he is dignified, implies the privilege. If we view his most striking characters in all their parts, we shall find that there is not an original in nature which exactly corresponds with them. Without this liberty, which hath been allowed him by long prescription, the art of poetry would be annihilated. The poetical eloquence of a rough old Trojan, or Grecian warriour, would be no longer endured: a simple, untutored shepherd would not be suffered to observe, or to reflect: he must not deliver his sentiments in elegant, though simple verse; and his good rhyme kept up for many lines together, would be still more intolerable. In short, without improving, and embellishing the life of the swain by fiction, a pastoral could never have been produced.

I have endeavoured in this translation, to express the sentiments of Tasso as he would have done had he been an Englishman, without a servile regard to his words: nay, in some places, I have added sentiments, and lines of my own; a liberty, which, I think, may be allowed in translating works of imagination, and amusement, though it is unpardonable in transfusing history and severer truth from one language into another. I have not, however, suppressed any part of the original, and where I have made additions to it, I thought the translation would have been flat without them. The Italian language is so liquid, and flowing, so poetical an organ of sentiment, that an Italian line, which is good poetry, will lose a great part of it's beauty, when translated into an English verse, however easy and harmonious. In such a case, an English translator must have recourse, if he can, to that vigour of thought which is so peculiar to his nation. England hath produced the greatest poets in Europe, not because our language, though a very noble one, is better adapted to poetry than any other; but because we have had sublimer geniuses than any people in the world. I am far from arrogating any excellence to myself: indeed it was not necessary in translating Amyntas. I have only endeavoured, where it was requisite, to tread in the steps of my countrymen.

Poetry, and it's diction should always be considered as coherent, and inseparable. Many minute criticks, and Mr. Hume amongst the rest, have, with much gravity, and discussion, found out, that the finest passages of the most celebrated poets, have nothing in them striking, when divested of their animated expression, and harmony of numbers. This is only discovering to us, that poetry, when turned into prose, ceases to be poetry, and that man consists of a body as well as a soul.

We often hear pastorals despised by those, who seem to think themselves great judges of literary productions. If they despise them because few have succeeded in composing them, every species of writing is liable to the same objection. But if they relish not the true subject of the pastoral poet, the scenes which he should paint, and the sentiments with which he should actuate his characters, they bring a heavy accusation against themselves. People of very profligate lives, in their still hours, after their minds have been tormented with the anxiety of vice, and their bodies jaded with it's debauchery, will have recourse to a book which presents better images than those to which they are accustomed, as to a temporary asylum; and endeavour to cheat themselves into a belief, that they are yet somewhat virtuous, because they are affected with the charms of virtue. But they who take no pleasure in viewing the objects of innoxious life; the humble cottage, and the quiet shade; the simplicity of the swain's manners, his honest labour, and his artless love; and in whom the poet who holds forth these objects to their view, excites ridicule, instead of tender feelings, are irrecoverably poisoned by the contagion of society; they are lost to a sense of peace, innocence, and virtue.

I must, in justice to my author, inform the reader, that the original never departs more from the usual simplicity of a pastoral, than I have done in the additions which I have made, and which I have already mentioned. I am warranted, however, by the model of the poem, and I had the entertainment of my reader in view. I am thus frank and explicit, because I would rather be accused of errour than disingenuity. In short, they who are curious to be acquainted with Tasso himself, will read the original; and they who are not, may, perhaps, be satisfied with my translation. If they are, my intention is fulfilled, and my hopes are gratified.

I beg leave to lay my humble attempt before the tribunal of candour, and sentiment. My translation is an English one; and I am only ambitious to please English men. I shall despise the impertinent censure of any pedantick Italian, any word-catcher, who lives on syllables, who, full of cavil and envy, but destitute of judgment, and taste, having first caught his mother-tongue like a parrot, hath, afterwards, learned all it's inflexions by poring over a grammar; and has, at length compleated his mechanism of language by the dictionary of Crusca.

Prologue

THE

PROLOGUE.

<>CUPID in a Shepherd's Dress.

TIS strange—but in a shepherd's poor disguise A God conceals himself from curious eyes: Yet no plebeian deity am I; My power controuls the greatest of the sky. Mars oft by me suspends his lust for war, Foregoes his crimson sword, and rattling car: Rough Neptune oft acknowledges my reign, And drops the trident which compels the main, Nay, my extensive influence reaches Jove, Ruler of men below, and gods above; Oft, at my will, some nymph's relaxing charms The universe's governour disarms; No more those bolts omnipotent are hurled That shake Olympus, and chastise the world.

Skreened by a simple shepherd's garb, and face, My mother sure in vain my flight will trace. Whene'er at simple hearts my shafts I aim, I'm forced by stealth to leave my haughty dame; For she, a very female, proud, and vain, Despises empire of a modest strain; Allows me not to prostitute my darts (Such is her rant) to vile, ignoble hearts;

Counts every victim for my bow too mean, Except a courtier, or a King, or Queen; And bids me send my scouts, my menial loves, To skulk in cottages, and range in groves. But though I'm playful, and of youthful mien (Sure joyous love should in it's god be seen) She shall not guide my province in her way; I am a deity, I know my sway, Know to my awful ensigns what I owe, The torch omnipotent, the golden bow.

For this I often court the peaceful plain, Nor can a mother's prayers my fight restrain; Tired with a capital's parade, and noise, I fly for refuge to Arcadia's joys: There am I pleased to see plain nature live; Olympus only purer sweets can give: There do I visit undistorted life—— ——No rank diseases, no chagrin, no strife; There to extend my power, well-pleased I aim, And shed a lambent, not a scorching flame; There I can act upon my genuine plan, And, like a god, promote the good of man.

Thus when I chuse in person to maintain O'er fields, and villages my peaceful reign; My mother, ever bent on some great aim, Too haughty to inspire a rural flame, To call me to her aid, from paltry views, The vagrant rebel oft in vain persues; And promises to those who find her boy, The rapturous kiss, or more extatic joy. Mistaken Venus! is not mine the power, As well as thine, to bless the tender hour?

To purchase my concealment when I rove In happy vales, and cherish guiltless love, Say, cannot I those tempting bribes employ, The rapturous kiss, or more extatick joy? The fair, most apt a secret to reveal, True to my interest, my retreats conceal: A kiss from Venus, with her charms divine, To females is not half so dear as mine; A kiss by me, the God of Love, impressed, Must speak strong language to a fair-one's breast; The god of love, who sure must know it's art, Can always for himself transfix a heart.

But that I might elude each curious view, And at my leisure my design persue, I carry not the marks that Cupid show, I'm stripped of wings, of quiver, and of bow.

Yet not without my arms I take the field; 'Tis not in vain this magick rod I wield; My torch I've metamorphosed to this rod, It still obeys the purpose of it's god; It's powerful motions certain love inspire; Sure as Jove's bolt it darts it's subtle fire. And though this arrow is not tipped with gold, In it my wonted sovereignty I hold; It will not lag, nor will it miss it's aim, But through the destined heart drive all my flame. I with this arrow mean to pierce the heart Of one who never felt love's pungent smart; To thaw from steril frost to warm desire The coldest virgin of Diana's choir; And Sylvia's breast shall all that ardour know With which my dart inflamed some years ago

Amyntas' bosom, who, as yet a boy, By Sylvia's side still felt a secret joy; Still at the chace with Sylvia scoured the plains, And joined in all the pastimes of the swains. And that my shaft it's errand well may go, And make a thorough victim of my foe, The tender, lucky moment I'll espy, When pity from her soul darts to her eye; When, listening to his tale of artless truth, She sheds soft glances on the constant youth. Then when her virgin ice dissolves away, Then when her ear endures his amorous lay, When she forgets each frown, each female whim, I'll pierce her through, and make her bleed like him.

Coy Sylvia now is hastening to the plain, Where spotless mirth oft chears the nymph and swain; Where to the dance, the song, and rural play, The happy throng devote this sestal day. Thither will I in shepherd's garb repair, Mix with the peasants, in their pleasure share; And at the crisis let my arrow fly, Too swift, and fine to meet a mortal eye.

These wondering woods, and rivulets, to-day, Shall echo an unusual amorous lay; And by it's energy it shall appear The deity of love himself is here. I, as I list, the human frame controul; Í mollify, and raise the rudest soul; By me the clown imbibes rich fancy's store, And rustick tongues fine elocution pour: And whilst my flame inspires the shepherd's thought, His reed shall emulate a Pindar's note.

I generously remove wealth's proud barrier, Of distant ranks bring kindred tempers near; And spurning custom's arbitrary rule, Would fain bring back the world to nature's school.

Yet rashly 'tis pronounced that I am blind— ——No; be the blindness charged on human kind. Let man with reason mix my hallowed fire, And then shall happiness exalt desire.

The Persons

<>THE PERSONS.

CUPID, in a Shepherd's Dress. DAPHNE, the Friend of Sylvia. SYLVIA, loved by Amyntas. AMYNTAS, a Shepherd. THYRSIS, the Friend of Amyntas. A SATYR, in Love with Sylvia. NERINA, a Shepherdess. ERGASTUS, a Shepherd. ELPINUS, a Shepherd. A CHORUS of Shepherds.

Act I.

AMYNTAS.

<>ACT I.

<>SCENE I. <>DAPHNE and SYLVIA.

<>DAPHNE. WILT thou, then, Silvia, waste the bloom of youth, Rejecting, sullenly, the joys of love? Say, shall a mother's tender, moving name, Never be music to thy callous ear? Can thy obdurate soul conceive no bliss, To see thy sportive children round thee play?

Nay, humanize thy breast; put on the woman; Nor be a rebel to the voice of nature.

<>SYLVIA. Let other nymphs court the delights of love; If love indeed has more delights than pains; A hardy, Amazonian life be mine: Let but my bow with happy negligence Be flung, my quiver gracefully depend; And I shall think my person well adorned. Let me the timid hare, or stag pursue; Let me the foremost brave the fiercer savage, Urge the nice aim, and bring him to the ground; And I shall never, Daphne, want employment To keep the working mind enough in action. Let other maids, of a more languid frame, Their souls enervate with destructive love.

<>DAPHNE. Insipid pleasures! an unnatural life! And if those rustic occupations please thee, It is because thou hast not proved sublimer. Thus to the world yet in its infant state,

Acorns and water were a sweet repast; The food of animals in better times! For Ceres gives us now her golden grain, And wine exhilerates the heart of man. Did but the happiness once reach thy soul, Such as a heart loving and loved enjoys, Thou wouldst repent, thou wouldst with sighs exclaim - —Alas! I've missed the road to Happiness! The time is lost that is not passed in love! How long I've lived a vegetable life, How long I've wanted sentimental being! Oh! my past time! how many lonely nights, How many dull unsocial days I've wasted, That might have been laid out on mutual love, Which gains new zest, and rises on enjoyment! Once more, refine thy breast; put on the woman, Nor be a rebel to the voice of nature. Life's flower will fade; regret may come too late.

<>SYLVIA. When I repent, when I with sighs exclaim,

As thy luxurious fancy painteth me, Retorted rivers to their springs shall flow; The wolf shall fly the lamb, the hound the hare; The bear shall quit the land, and seek the sea; The dolphin flounce upon our towering Alps.

<>DAPHNE. I know the obstinate caprice of youth: Such as my Sylvia is, was Daphne too. My person, and my face, resembled thine. Like thine my hair in flaxen ringlets waved. My lips were just of that vermilion hue; And on my cheeks the rose by fine degrees Was in the lily lost. My passion then, (The passion of an unexperienced maid) Was but to tend the nets, to lime the twigs, To whet the dart, and trace the timorous deer; And if I met a shepherd’s amorous eye, I, savage-like, fixed mine upon the ground, In shame, and rage; nay I despised my charms, I hated them, because they pleased another. As if it had been crime, and infamy,

To raise a passion wrought in human nature. But how our sentiments are changed by time! And what strange revolutions in us work The service, merit, ardent supplications Of an importunate, and constant lover! I was subdued, I own it; and the arms, With which the victor gained, at length, his conquest, Were, humble patience, sighs, and warm complaints, Assisted by a female sympathy, That pleads the cause of an impassioned lover. The shades oracular of one short night Threw more illumination on my mind, Than many a hundred suns had done before. I chid my folly, and with keen regret, I said—the emblems which I long have worn As thy disciple, Cynthia, now I quit—— I quit my bow, my passion for the chace; Sport for untutored souls, but not for mine: Love hath reclaimed me to my sexis joys.

With such humanity, I yet would hope, Amyntas will his Sylvia's mind impress, And mollify to love that heart of stone. That heart by every title he should gain. What more engaging youth adorns our hamlets? Did ever shepherd burn with warmer love? Say, do not rival nymphs bleed for Amyntas? Yet can their fame, or can thy cruel scorn, One moment turn his constant thoughts from thee; Can'st thou pretend his birth discredits țhine? The fair Cydippe was thy mother; she Claimed for her sire our noble river-god; And is not he Silvanus' son, of whom Pan is the father, the great god of shepherds? Look in the mirror of the chrystal stream, And Sylvia, thou must own that Amaryllis Possesses beauty not less rare than thine. Yet he rejects her smiles, and courts thy frowns, Suppose (determined man can do strange things, Heaven grant the supposition may be vain!)

That he, by thy disdain at length, enraged, Turns all his thoughts on Amaryllis' charms; And forms her, by imagination's power, Into his object of connubial bliss? What then will be thy mind? how will it bear To think him irretrievably another's? To think him happy in a rival's arms? To see him give thee back thy haughty scorn?

<>SYLVIA. Amyntas, as he pleases, may bestow His heart, and person; 'tis not my concern. He never can be mine; why should I then Envy the fortune of the maid he chuses? Nay~were he mine, I never could be his: Affection shrinks; it withers on compulsion.

<>DAPHNE. Whence your aversion to him?

<>SYLVIA. From his love.

<>DAPHNE. Effect inhuman from a cause benign!

Obdurate son sprung from a gentle fire! Thou counteractest nature's general laws. Do the mild sheep ingender ravenous wolves? Do snowy swans produce the sooty crow? Sylvia, you either trifle with you friend, Or with yourself, misled by female whim.

<>SYLVIA. Amyntasis design makes me dislike him; The man who proffers love I count my foe; Under t h e specious word destruction lurks And while Amyntas passed his hours with me In general converse, and in light amusement, I own, my Daphne, I esteemed the swain. But when he talked of serious, fatal love, Disgust succeeded straight my friendship for him.

<>DAPHNE. You quite mistake the object of your swain He means to make himself and Sylvia happy.

<>SYLVIA. Daphne, I'll give no longer my attention To such discourse; propose some other theme.

<>DAPHNE. Thou supercilious girl! yet prithee tell me; Art thou determined to accept no lover?

<>SYLVIA. Whoe'er should make the proffer, I'd reject him; I'd deem him a betrayer; one who lay In artful, flowery ambush for my honour. Such you call lovers; I call deadly foes.

<>DAPHNE. The mild creation contradicts thy spleen. Yonder the sheep are grazing, harmless race! And if we knew not their innoxious life, Their very bleat bespeaks their innocence. Say does the ram conspire against his ewe? Does his breast harbour any black design? The lordly bull, so dreadful in his wrath, Whose roar, and levelled head, and pawing hoof, Wither the stoutest mortal with affright, Is to his heifer mild; to her he shows No rougher treatment than his clumsy love.

Dost thou imagine that the faithful turtle Intends hostility against his mate? The constant pair seek a sequestered shade, Far from the noise, the violence of man: There do they perch, and in the soft caress, And tender dialogue they pass the day. Their voice announces their pathetic souls, Their souls pathetic, breathing nought but love. And while they coo, the corresponding woods, The rugged rocks, seem to admire their flame. Canst thou suppose the spring, the smiling spring, When love diffuses all his genial influence, A season that produces gloomy passions? Now the gay period reigns; mark it's effects. Observe the dove, seated on yonder elm; With soothing murmur how he bills his mate. Hark the sweet nightingale on yonder spray; What harmony distends his little throat! 'Tis love's warm imagery that fires his breast; And pours his raptured sentiments in musick. The shifting scenes of love are all before him;

I hear it in the changes of his voice. Listen, my Sylvia—now in short, timid accents, He supplicates his mistress—but in vain; Now he laments, and as he feels her rigour, Breathes forth a lengthened, liquid, dying note Oh! his complaint has won her: he concludes In joyful flourishes, in strains of triumph. 'Tis love that animates his varied song; He says in every note—"I love, I love." Even the dark adder, at this social season, Intent on love, forgets his baleful poison: The fierceness of the tiger is subdued, The lordly lion, king of beasts is humbled. Why on the brute creation need I dwell? The mighty power of love pervades the trees. See how the amorous vines embrace their elms; Beeches for beeches, rugged oaks for oaks Express their inclination by their dress, Their whispering rustle, and consenting wave. Would'st thou then rank thyself below the plants, Dead to the lively sentiments of love?

Shake off thy prejudice; put on the woman, Nor be a rebel to the voice of nature.

<>SYLVIA. Well, Daphne, when I hear the sighs of plants, I frankly will consent to be a lover.

<>DAPHNE. Sylvia, thy folly only can be equalled By thy insensibility to love. Dost thou then make advice, and argument The ill-timed subject of insipid banter? But go, thou foolish maid; the time will come When thou in vain severely wilt repent Thy inattention to my friendly lessons, I speak not of that mortifying time When thou shalt fly the mirror of the stream, Where oft thy face thou viewest, and perhaps, Unfeeling as thou art, dost oft admire it: The time when thou shalt fly the limpid fountain, Dreading to see the ruins of thy beauty, The furrows of old age, thy withered hue, Spoiled of the lily, and the rose, for ever;

The certain havock of life's cruel winter. No, Sylvia, this is not the dreadful time, Nor this the evil of which I forewarn thee; 'Tis common, and 'tis therefore not so galling. Can'st thou not recollect what sage Elpinus Told, a few days ago, the fair Lycoris?—— Lycoris, who as deeply should imbibe Soft passion from Elpinus' noble song As he receives it from Lycoris' eye; If mortals once could love by reason's laws. Battus, and Thyrsis heard Elpinus tell it, Both finished masters in the art of love. He told it in Aurora's sacred cave, Where, o’er the portal awfully is written, “Be feet profane far from this hallowed place.” He told us—and he said he had the truth From the great bard, who sung of arms and love, And dying left him his harmonious flute; ——That in the nether world there is a cave, Gloomy and drear, where lazy Acheron Sends forth sulphureous, pestilential vapour;

And in that cave, he said, ungrateful women Would live eternally, by Heaven's decree, In darkness, frantick grief, and Stygian anguish. Sylvia, if you persist to steel your heart, Expect a mansion in that dire abode. Well do the wretches in another state Deserve to suffer unremitted torment, Whom tears of misery never moved in this.

<>SYLVIA. What did Lycoris then; how did she answer This strange denunciation?

<>DAPHNE. Art thou anxious To know another's conduct?—mend thy own. She answered with her eyes.

<>SYLVIA. I understand not that: The eye is mute; how can it form an answer?

<>DAPHNE. A novice thou to love's expressive language! The soft and strong emotions of the soul

In magick beams are darted from the eye. She smiled on her Elpinus with her eyes: I marked them—these were their distinct expressions. "Dear swain, my person, and my heart are thine. "Implore the deities of love no more, "No further testimony can I give thee "Of my affection now; this is enough "For modest nymph to give, chaste swain to take. "Enough thou wilt esteem it, if Elpinus "Honest as bright believes Lycoris' eyes; "If they deserve at once his faith and love.

<>SYLVIA. What reason had he to suspect their truth?

<>DAPHNE. What? didst thou never hear what Thyrsis wrote In love's delirium, on Lycoris' eyes? When the poor shepherd, stung to amorous frenzy,

Roamed through the lonely woods, to feed his passion, Object of pity to the nymphs, and swains: And so extravagant his passion was, Their pity was accompanied with mirth. But his warm verse was not ridiculous. I read the lines myself, which he had written On many a tree; and with the trees they grew. "Destructive eyes, false mirrors of her heart! “I, to my sorrow know the lies you've told me: “Yet what avails it me to know your lies, “If I still wish to view the basilisk, “And catch fresh ruin from your fatal rays?"

<>SYLVIA. Daphne, I'm wasting here my precious time, Harangued, in vain, by thy luxurious fancy. I had forgotten that in Elicetum A numerous hunting party meets to-day. Thither I go; but in the wonted stream First will I bathe, and cleanse me from the dust Of yesterday; 'twas a fatiguing chace;