Ah me! (he cry'd) how fitly shall I frame
A fair pretence to mitigate the blame?
Well may my wife my loyal truth suspect,
Her gifts and love repaid with such neglect.
He knew 'twere vain, with cold excuse to send
A menial servant, or a nearer friend:
Himself in person must return to prove
His faith untainted, and her doubts remove.
He rein'd his steed, and cry'd, my Faustus, go
Tow'rds Pavia's court with gentle steps and slow,
I must again to Rome, but short my stay,
Soon shall my speed o'ertake you on the way;
No other can supply my wants---He said;
Then bade adieu, and turn'd his courser's head:
Alone he cross'd old Tyber's yellow stream,
What time the shade retir'd from Phoebus' beam:
When, hastening home, he found the darling fair
Fast lock'd in sleep (so poignant was her care!)
The curtain with a cautious hand he drew,
And view'd, what little there he thought to view;
For, lo! his chaste, his faithful spouse he found
In wanton sheets, with amorous fetters bound,
Clasp'd by a youth, in whose adulterous face,
He knew the author of his foul disgrace:
A low-born hind defil'd his master's bed,
Whose hand had rear'd him, and whose bounty fed.
Think what amazement chill'd his curdling blood,
As fix'd in stupid gaze he speechless stood:
Ne'er may your soul, by sad experience, know
The cruel anguish of Jocundo's wue.
Rage urg'd him on to draw the sword, and take
A just revenge; but Love, that still could wake,
For this ingrate, soft feelings in his breast,
Spite of himself the threatening stroke repress'd
All-powerful Love, that from his anger sav'd
Her forfeit life, so far his heart enslav'd,
He fear'd to chase the slumber from her eyes,
And with the shock her tender soul surprise.
Silent the room he left, with silent speed
The stairs descended, and regain'd his steed;
Goaded by grief, he goads his fiery beast,
And joins his brother ere the hour of rest.
All mark'd his change of cheer, his mournful look,
That some near anguish at his heart bespoke;
Yet none, amidst so many, e'er divin'd
The secret cause that rankled in his mind:
All knew he left them to return to Rome,
But he had made a trip to Cuckoldom.
Each deem'd that love lay festering in his thought, 175 But none could tell how love his sorrow wrought.
His brother deem'd he mourn'd his consort, left
Of comfort and society bereft :
But he had different motives to complain,
Her too much company had caus'd his pain.
He sighs, he weeps, while Faustus to his grief
(The cause unknown) can yield no kind relief:
In vain he seeks the healing balm to pour,
What hand can heal, that cannot probe the sore?
Ver. 174. But he had made a trip to Cuckoldom---] The Italian is,
........gito era a Corneto :......
Corneto, the name of a place near Rome. The word likewise means Cuckoldom; but the humour of the original arising from the double meaning of the word, could not be preserved in the same nanner in the translation,
The healing balm is rankest venom found,
Which more inflames, and wider makes the wound.
His consort's once-lov'd name distracts his breast,
His appetite is gone, and lost his rest;
While those fair features, that so late might claim
The prize of beauty, seem'd no more the same:
With deep-sunk eyes, and large projecting nose,
With wither'd flesh, a skeleton he shows;
And, bred from grief, a fever on the way
At Arbia, and at Arno forc'd his stay,
Till lost those charms that once such fame had won, 195 Like gather'd roses fading in the sun.
Though Faustus, touch'd with deep regret, perceiv'd His brother's woeful state, no less he griev'd
To think the prince, to whom his faith he ow'd,
Should doubt his truth for praise so ill bestow'd.
He promis'd one of matchless form and face,
And one he brings depriv'd of every grace:
Yet with Jocundo, still he journey'd on,
Till now they enter'd Pavia's regal town:
But, fearful of disgrace, the Roman knight
At first declin'd to meet Astolpho's sight,
Till to the king by letter he reveal'd
That dire disease, and some distress conceal'd,
Prey'd on his brother's ruin'd health, defac'd
His rosy bloom, and laid each beauty waste.
Astolpho, gracious prince, well pleas'd to hear
The man he long'd so much to see was near,
Resolv'd his noblest welcome to extend,
And greet Jocundo as his dearest friend.
No envy in his generous breast was known,
To find a beauty that excell'd his own;
Since, but for pale disease, full well he knew
His rival's charms must every charm subdue.
Superb apartments to the youth he gives,
And only in Jocundo's presence lives:
His wishes to prevent all means applies,
And every way to do him honour tries;
While he, unblest, in langour wastes his life,
Lamenting still the falsehood of his wife:
Nor song, nor dance, nor music's sprightly strains
Can drown remembrance, or assuage his pains.
In these apartments of the regal dome,
An ancient hall was next his lonely room,
The room where oft retir'd in grief he pines,
And shows, and games, and company declines;
Broods o'er the deed that robb'd his soul of rest,
And adds new scorpions to his tortur'd breast;
Yet, strange to tell, a balsam here he found,
Of sovereign power to close his rankling wound.
Far in the hall, where artificial night,
With windows ever clos'd, expell'd the light,'
A chink appear'd, and through the mouldering flaw,
Whence came a feeble ray, he thought he saw
What few would hear, and fewer would believe,
Nor from another would himself receive.
There, through the opening chink, reveal'd was seen
The secret chamber of Astolpho's queen;
A sacred privacy to all deny'd,
But those in whom the fair could well confide:
Here oft Astolpho's beauteous consort sate,
Forgetful of her lord and regal state;
And here he view'd a dwarf of hideous face,
And shape uncouth, the wanton fair embrace,
Struck with the sight, yet doubting what he view'd,
As in a trance awhile Jocundo stood:
But, when convinc'd, no longer could he deem
The sight th' illusion of an idle dream.
Ye gods! (he cry'd) can she resign her charms
To the rude clasp of such a lover's arms?
A queen, whose lord with every gift is crown'd,
In form unrivall'd, as in worth renown'd!
Reflection that before so pain'd his heart,
Now took, by slow degrees, his consort's part.
What though she sought a young gallant to find,
Her fault was but the fault of all her kind:
Whose favours none could ever singly prove,
And if desire of change her breast could move,
At least no monster had enjoy'd her love.
Next day, returning at th' accustom'd hour,
He found the lover's busy'd as before:
Still fearless of surprise, the dwarf and dame
The king dishonour'd with the deed of shame.
Day following day their mutual vigour proves,
And Sunday was no Sabbath to their loves.
Yet most he marvell'd that the fair complain'd,
And thought th' ill-shapen cub her charms disdain'd.
One morn, when to the friendly chink he came,
He found, dissolv'd in tears, the amorous dame:
Who twice already, by her trusty maid,
Had call'd the dwarf, and still the dwarf delay'd.
Again she sent her maid these tidings brought;
The dice, my lady, take up all his thought;
And rather than forego his gain at play,
He dares your gracious summons disobey.
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