holds my heart in anguish of suspense? Absence. If that be so, then for my grief Where shall I turn to seek relief, When hope on every side lies slain By Absence, Jealousies, Disdain? What the prime cause of all my woe doth prove? Love. What at my glory ever looks askance? Chance. Whence is permission to afflict me given? Heaven. If that be so, I but await The stroke of a resistless fate, Since, working for my woe, these three, Love, Chance and Heaven, in league I see. What must I do to find a remedy? Die. What is the lure for love when coy and strange? Change. What, if all fail, will cure the heart of sadness? Madness. If that be so, it is but folly To seek a cure for melancholy: Ask where it lies; the answer saith In Change, in Madness, or in Death.
The hour, the summer season, the solitary place, the voice and skill of the singer, all contributed to the wonder and delight of the two listeners, who remained still waiting to hear something more; finding, however, that the silence continued some little time, they resolved to go in search of the musician who sang with so fine a voice; but just as they were about to do so they were checked by the same voice, which once more fell upon their ears, singing this sonnet:
When heavenward, holy Friendship, thou didst go Soaring to seek thy home beyond the sky, And take thy seat among the saints on high, It was thy will to leave on earth below Thy semblance, and upon it to bestow Thy veil, wherewith at times hypocrisy, Parading in thy shape, deceives the eye, And makes its vileness bright as virtue show. Friendship, return to us, or force the cheat That